


Please God, Let Me Live

by flitterflutterfly



Series: Please God, Let Me Live [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Captivity, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con References, S&M, Season/Series 01, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flitterflutterfly/pseuds/flitterflutterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson found himself facing an AK-47, on his knees and hopeless, he said the only thing he could say. But, while God did let him survive, living was a completely different matter. And for a sub without a Guardian in London, well that was a harsh matter indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The ten chapters of this story follow the first season of Sherlock BBC very closely. There are differences that come about because of the nature of it being a Dom/sub world, but there are times when you will not really know what's going on if you don't have a pretty good idea as to the plot of the episodes.
> 
>  **Warnings:** There is non-con references and violence and torture, including rape in the later chapters. Everything between John and Sherlock is consensual—John and others... not so much.
> 
> Beta'd by my darling Marita. 
> 
> I wrote this several years ago and it was one of my first stories that contained sex. It's not great—but I keep it because I wrote this with the best of my ability at that time in my life. Keep in mind, this is FICTIONALIZED VERSION of how fetlife actually works.
> 
> This is also, for the most part, very Americanized. So sorry for those who want real British accuracy. 
> 
> This is also my BDSM world closest to Xanthe's original BDSM universe she wrote in General and Dr. Sheppard and then beyond. Giving her credit for that amazing idea that has sparked this entire genre.
> 
> There is a playlist by PhoenixFlowers for this story [here](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL1697208BB103582F).

There was resistance, at first, to his choice of career. But that only lasted for a couple of years before it was proven undoubtedly that not only was he needed, was his kind needed, but they were needed desperately. Some doctors had a habit of taking small liberties while they worked and in a such Dom-populated profession it often wasn’t contested. Subs didn’t like it and even more their Guardians didn’t like it. For Doms to be able to take their spouse to another sub to be treated, well, John was soon in high demand.

That didn’t last long, though. The army picked him up almost immediately after he finished med school and he couldn’t say no to the freedom they offered. At least, the freedom he thought they offered.

It went well; John passed three birthdays in the field. He was quick to be desensitized to the violence, quick to make friends, quick to find bed partners in the infantry men who dropped by the med tent with a cup of tea straight from their own rations and a winning smile. Nothing serious- you didn’t get serious on the front lines. John learned that all too quickly.

But nothing that amazing could last and as he found himself at the end of an AK-47, a cruel sneer blooming over his captor’s face as the man forced to him to his knees… well, he said the only thing he could say.

“Please God, let me live.”

And God did.

He survived with a wound to his shoulder, a limp that he couldn’t be rid of, and haunting memories of death that surrounded him even as he found himself a cheap motel outside of London and a therapist with too many assumptions.

He wandered through life, floating without a purpose.

Then he ran across an old friend and his life was once again flipped on its head.

~.~.~.~

“John? John Watson?”

John turned at the sound of his name, resisting the urge to take a step back as a man in a tan trench coat and glasses stood up from the nearby bench. He hadn’t even noticed the man when he walked by, but the man obviously had him.

“It’s Mike Stamford,” the man said and John suddenly recognized the cheerful face of his old uni friend.

“Hello, sir,” John said with just the right amount of respect, turning fully to face the man. He couldn’t help but notice the quick glance of Mike’s eyes to his bare neck.

Mike smiled. “No need for that, not between old friends.” He gestured wide, though John wasn’t sure what that was supposed to represent.

John let himself relax just slightly. “If you wish, Mike.”

Mike’s smile widened and he clapped his hands together. “Now, John, what are you doing here? Last I heard you were off getting shot.”

Despite the smile, John could hear the disapproval in the man’s tone. None of his friends, neither the Doms nor the subs, had been happy about his choice to join the army. “Well, I got shot,” John said blandly.

Mike’s smile dropped at that. “Oh,” he murmured. “So, you’ve moved back to London, then?”

John nodded, allowing Mike to herd him towards the bench. He said nothing as they sat.

“Who’s your Guardian?” Mike asked after a moment.

He’d noticed, obviously, that John was neither collared, cuffed, or marked in anyway. John knew that with most he would be assumed a Dom, but not Mike. No, Mike had known him too long.

And really, it was rare for subs to not have a Guardian. Not illegal, necessarily, but severely looked down upon. It was always parents, at first. A high school sweetheart may be able to convince the parent Dom to give them provisional Guardianship, but even that was rare. If the sub went to uni away from home, then the Guardianship was transferred to someone both the family and the sub in question trusted. It may switch a couple more times to good friends, until it settled on someone permanently.

It wasn’t always platonic, but neither was it always sexual. Guardians could ask anything of the subs under their power, which is why it was a lengthy process to switch the position to someone new. Lengthy and full of legal bull, with paperwork to give anyone a headache. Guardians could get into a lot of trouble if something happened to one of their subs, but it was said that no Dom was true unless they had at least one person under their care.

John didn’t really know about that, the army had been his proverbial Guardian for three years before they threw him out. Nicely threw him out, but threw him out none the less.

John looked at the ground and let out a soft sigh. “I don’t have one,” he said. “I’m staying at a motel outside of London.”

“And Harry?” Mike’s questioning bordered on interrogation, but John supposed he deserved that. He’d turned down the man’s offer of Guardianship in favor of going to war, after all.

John had always liked how Mike had treated him like any other man at their uni, but Mike’s respect for him as a man did not stand up to his honor as a Dom.

“I don’t,” John grimaced. “She offered, but….” He took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts. His hand shook slightly at his side and he flexed it. “I’m beaten, broken, and scarred. I get nightmares, Mike, awful screaming nightmares. Who’d want me as a sub?”

The look on Mike’s face was strange. John expected pity, sadness, maybe anger. But instead what he got was something almost contemplative. “You know,” the man said softly, “just this morning an old acquaintance of mine said something rather similar. 'Who’d want me as a Guardian?'”

John blinked at that. “Who was it?”

Mike glanced at him, glasses glinting in the clouded sunlight. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”

~.~.~.~

That was how John got to be standing at the door of an office lab, leaning heavily on his good leg as Mike walked in first.

First glance showed the place to be messy, much messier than he tried to keep his workspace, but with machines John didn’t even recognize and gadgets he had no idea how to use. He felt a comment come up to the tip of his tongue, but he refrained from letting it loose. Who was he to comment on the change in technology when he barely knew how to use his phone?

“When I told you that people were asking why I didn’t have a sub to take care of, or to take care of me, that was not supposed to give you leave to go hunting,” a deep voice reverberated through the room and John looked at the only other occupant besides Mike and himself.

Dark curls and stunning hazel eyes met his view as a well dressed man placed one more drop of clear liquid into the container in front of him, then set down his pipette.

“This is John Watson, Dr. John Watson actually, an old friend of mine,” Mike introduced, eyes on the man.

The man rose to his full height and John felt a curl of anticipation roll through his abdomen. The man, the Dom, stalked over to him and John straightened on reflex. He ignored the bristle of hairs on the base of his neck as the man circled him twice. John could feel the burn of eyes, but he looked straight ahead and said nothing.

Then the man was backing away and staring at him from the front. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John’s eyes flicked up to meet the man’s. “Excuse me?” he chocked out.

The man raised one eyebrow. “It’s a simple question, doctor, Afghanistan or Iraq?” his voice did not raise or lower, but this time the question held the note of command behind it.

“Afghanistan,” John answered before he could fully register the implications. “But how?”

He realized then that he was staring quite blatantly and he blushed, before turning his eyes back to a point somewhere over the man’s shoulder. Never stare a strange Dom in the eyes, he chided himself, his mind taking on the tone of his late father. You never know when they’ll protest about a obstinent sub, especially an uncollared one.

“Give me your phone,” the man commanded suddenly, startling John out of his thoughts.

John’s hand twitched towards his pocket, but he shook himself out of it and frowned. “Why?”

John knew he should probably be more obedient, but he was on guard and wary of this strange man. Besides, he had no Guardian for anyone to complain to. Not yet, at least.

The man’s eyes flashed something dangerous and John straightened even further. But the Dom just turned to Mike. “You?” he asked, voice deceptively pleasant.

John glanced at his friend and found him amused, though why that would be so, John did not know.

“Left it in my coat,” Mike said apologetically and then he turned his eyes on John.

With an inward sigh, John fetched his phone from his pocket. “Here,” he said, leaving the sir off with the shadow of spite.

The man turned back to him and his lips quirked. He stepped closer and took the phone, fingers brushing John’s.

John’s face grew red, again, and he quickly found the floor with his eyes, listening as the man’s thumbs glided over his phone’s keyboard.

“Well, I must be off,” the man said, slipping John’s phone back into the sub's pocket.

John forced himself not to flinch at the sudden loss of personal space. Then he registered what had been said and he gaped.

“Meet me for dinner at 5:30 sharp outside Moon’s Cradle,” the man was saying as he grabbed his coat and scarf. “If you decide then that you can deal with me, we’ll look at this nice little flat in the center of London,” he spared John one more glance. “I left my riding crop in the morgue, if you’d fetch it for me? Just tell Molly that I sent you.”

“Wait,” John called, the Dom already halfway out the door. “I don’t even know your name.”

The man stopped and then stuck his head back in. “Sherlock Holmes, pleasure.” And with a wink, he was gone.

~.~.~.~

John spent the rest of the evening in Mike’s company, trading stories and in general just catching up. He attempted to learn more about Sherlock Holmes, but Mike was not forthcoming and eventually John gave up.

John did learn almost too much about both of Mike’s current subs, one a young man in college with whose parents Mike had been close and the other a woman Mike was obviously very smitten with. John wondered when his friend was going to ask to collar her, but he kept that question to himself.

At 5:28, Mike dropped him off outside Moon’s Cradle with John’s promise to call and a nostalgic goodbye hug (at some point it had just seemed weird to leave with a simple handshake or a wave). He watched the car leave and didn’t notice the presence of another until he was right up next to him.

“Friends?” the voice John found that he immediately recognized spoke in his ear.

“Just friends,” John amended, and stepped away.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. “Shall we?” He turned and headed towards the entrance of the restaurant, John following the expected three steps behind on his right.

John assumed they would have to wait in the impressive line, but Sherlock bypassed it and was nodded in by the hostess at the door without even the mention of a name.

It didn’t take long for them to be shown into a private back room, with a lovely sub with a beautiful bejeweled collar to come greet them as they hung their coats on the hooks on the wall.

“Sherlock!” she cried with such obvious joy that John had to check again that the name on the collar was Jeffery, not that of the man standing besides him.

Sherlock accepted both hug and chaste kiss with an easy smile. It didn’t take much for John to find it fake, but the sub didn’t seem to notice. “Analese, how are you?” the Dom greeted.

Analese blushed sweetly. “Fabulous.” She clasped her hands together.  ”Oh really, I just can’t help but thank you again, Sherlock!”

The Dom waved a hand. “Oh no, it was apparent that Rodger wasn’t a good man. You’re much happier with Jeff then?”

Analese nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes, he is absolutely charming.”

“I would imagine,” Sherlock bowed his head. “Now, I’m afraid I must be making my companion jealous.”

Analese turned her head to look at John and he gave her a wry smile. He certainly was not jealous, he barely knew the man, but he’d play along.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Analese took a step back from Sherlock, giving them both a bit more room. “Please, enjoy your meal. It’s on the house tonight,” and with an exaggerated blown kiss, she left.

Sherlock glanced at him, then at the table. “I suppose I should ask if you’d prefer to kneel, but alas you don’t, not with your leg, so sit.”

And with a flourish Sherlock seated himself in one chair, leaving the second for John. He stood for a moment, staring, before gathering his wits and sitting slowly. He set his cane against the nearby wall, letting himself sink into the cushions on the chair.

“You have questions,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence first.

John warred with himself for only a moment. “Yeah, actually,” he said, unable to beat down his curiosity. “How’d you know about the war?”

“The same way I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I might add, that you were more than just an army doctor, and that you have a brother with whom you don’t get along, possibly because he’s alcoholic but more likely because he recently walked out on his sub.” Sherlock sounded almost bored.

John just stared.

“What would you like to eat, sir?” Another sub, a male this time, stood at the door. He approached the table with a soft smile. This one didn’t have a collar but he did have a leather cuff on his left wrist depicting the name of his Guardian. All proper for a sub.

John couldn’t help but glance at his own bare wrists. Maybe Mike was right to be disturbed by them.

“I’ll have the house pasta,” Sherlock said.

The sub turned to him and John blanched. He didn’t even know what the place served. “Uh,” he stalled.

“He’ll have the steak and potatoes,” Sherlock interrupted. “And a bottle of red to top it off, pick your best.”

The Sub bowed and left.

“Why’d you say that?” John asked slowly.

“Say what?” Sherlock was busy unfolding his tablecloth and putting it on his lap.

“More than an army doctor,” John had to force himself not to imitate the tone the man had taken previously. “More?”

Sherlock leveled a gaze on his calmly. “You were trained to kill, you have killed, I see it in your step, in your manner of being. You may have saved lives on the field, Dr. Watson, but I wager you took just as many.”

John really didn’t have anything to say to that.

After a moment, John turned his eyes from the table back up to Sherlock. The man was studying him. “You’re wondering how I knew, if perhaps Mike told me, or another acquaintance.”

“That’s not it?” It was John’s turn to raise an eyebrow.

Sherlock’s lips twitched again. John found that half smile far more natural than the one he’d put on earlier for Analese. “No,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. And he explained, picking apart John’s behavior and piecing together a deduction so quickly, so simply. John could barely believe it and the only thing he could say after Sherlock finished was:

“That was… brilliant.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and John could just make out surprise in his eyes. “That’s not normally what people say.”

“What do they normally say?” John asked, suddenly worried he’d misspoken.

“Piss off,” Sherlock said and there was amusement in his eyes now. Amusement and something else, curiosity, perhaps?

“Huh,” John shrugged. “Embarrassed, I’ll bet.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock agreed. “Regardless, I didn’t get it all right, did I?”

That took John aback. “Why would you ask that?”

“No one is perfect,” Sherlock admitted with that damn half-smile of his coming up again. “Least of all me. I know well enough to learn from my mistakes. Besides, I rarely get everything right, just certainly enough to go on.”

John could hardly fault the logic of that. “Well, Clara was Harry’s sub and I was upset when they split up. And Harry is an alcoholic,” John said, still amazed Sherlock had even figured that out with so few clues.

Sherlock waited. “And?”

“And,” John allowed himself a smile, “Harry is short for Harriet.”

“Harry’s your sister.” Understanding dawned on Sherlock face and he shook his head. “Sister.”

John couldn’t help it, he laughed.

Sherlock blinked at him, and then he chuckled low, sending a curl from John’s chest to his groin.

“Oh,” John said, suddenly remembering. He stood and walked to his jacket, pulling from it a riding crop. Quickly, he walked to Sherlock, who had gotten serious instantly.

John made as if to hand the crop over, but Sherlock didn’t move to take it and he paused. The Dom’s eyes were dark, something in them sparking a challenge. John had a choice here, he knew. He was immensely attracted to the man in front of him, and yet he knew so little about him.

What was he if not brave? He was always one to take a chance and hope for the best, it was his nature. He had so few options left for himself. And he trusted Mike. Mike trusted Sherlock. Unsafe, perhaps, but that would have to be enough to go on. Taking a deep breath, he decided his move.

John kneeled, ignoring his leg as he folded in on himself and presented Sherlock the crop, palms up, head down.

There was a pause, and then fingers ghosted over his own as the weight was lifted from his palms. Then there was a hand in his hair, stroking and petting.

John hadn’t had this kind of treatment in a long time. He closed his eyes and shifted so that his left shoulder rested up against Sherlock’s thigh. The hand on his hair moved down to his cheek, then back up. The strokes were soft and sensual and John let himself relax into them.

John didn’t know how long he sat there, focusing only on that hand. He didn’t understand it, but when he opened his eyes again it was to the smell of food on the table. He wasn’t one to trust so easily, he never trusted that easily. Frankly, it scared him how much he’d let himself slip under Sherlock’s hand. And yet, impossibly, the hand soothed him still, before he could panic or rethink his actions.

“Food?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, not a command or even a request. Just a question.

John nodded and stood. The sudden movement made him sway and strong hands clasped his hips to steady him.

“Thanks,” he murmured as he reclaimed his seat.

Sherlock merely inclined his head in acknowledgment.

John waited until Sherlock took the first bite before picking up his silverware. Were Sherlock his Dom, he’d wait for permission before eating, but Sherlock wasn’t, not yet. Then again, even if he were John doubted he'd be the traditionalist type to demand such lengths.

John cut off a bite of steak, savoring the warmth of the sauce as it consumed his tongue and slid down his throat. He understood then why the restaurant was so raved about.

And it was on the house.

John glanced at Sherlock, only to find him fiddling with his fork, eyes meeting his. “You have a question?” The Dom noted.

John licked his lips and nodded. “Yeah, what’d you do to Rodger, then, for Analese to give you this meal? And who is she, exactly?”

“Rodger was embezzling money from this establishment, which is Analese’s by right and law,” Sherlock said slowly. “I simply made sure the police knew.”

John was positive that there was more to that story, but he let it slide.

They ate in silence for several more minutes, or rather John ate and Sherlock watched him.

Then, just as John was again beginning to relax into the quiet, Sherlock took a breath. “Have you heard of the recent suicides?”

John looked up quickly. “Sorry?”

Sherlock gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “The suicides, in London.”

John’s mind flashed to the newspaper he’d read that morning. “Three, right? They all took the same pill.”

Sherlock nodded. “What is your opinion?”

John frowned. “Well, it’s awful, what with three people offing themselves.”

“You do believe them suicides, then?” Sherlock wasn’t look at him. He was looked out the window. John resisted the urge to turn around and see at what.

“Weren’t they?” he asked instead.

Sherlock stood and with a smile shook his head. “Oh no, John, not suicide. Four murders.”

“Murders?” John gaped, then, “four?”

All of the sudden, another Dom was at the door of the room. He had silver hair and cool eyes that took in both the dinner and John with one sweep.

“What’s different about this one?” Sherlock said without preamble.

The stranger took it all in stride. “She left a message.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

The Dom glanced once more at John, then turned his eyes back to Sherlock. “You coming?”

“Not in your car, I’ll get a cab,” Sherlock said as he signaled the waiter behind the man’s shoulder.

The man nodded and then turned on his heels and walked out. The waiter came in.

“We’re leaving, tell Analese that I appreciated her hospitality and will be sure to visit soon.” Sherlock began to leave ask well, but then stopped and turned towards John. “Coming?”

John hesitated, then with a nod he grabbed both coat and cane.

That’s how he found himself at the yellow tape of a crime scene. A strong-willed sub faced them on the other side of the tape with a scowl. “What ‘re you doing ‘ere?” she asked, addressing Sherlock.

“I was invited,” Sherlock said shortly. “But how good to see you too, Sally.”

John found himself slightly surprised at the sarcasm. He hadn’t expected that from Sherlock, but he could feel the two had history.

The sub flicked her eyes from Sherlock to John. “And ‘im?”

Sherlock ducked under the tape then and held it up for John to come through. John found himself oddly touched by the gesture. “He’s a colleague.”

The sub scoffed. “You have a colleague? A colleague?”

Sherlock let go of the tape as John slid next to him, slightly closer than perhaps he should have. “John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. Donovan, this is Dr. John Watson.”

He clapped his hands together, effectively dismissing whatever it was Donovan was about to say. “Now, where’s the body?”

Donovan raised the radio to her still frowning lips. “Freak’s coming up,” she said into it. Then she pointed towards the building behind her, watching with cold eyes as Sherlock walked towards it. She turned to John before he could follow. “I’d stay away from ‘im if I were you. Do you know why he’s ‘ere? He gets off on it. He’s sadistic, that one. Wouldn’t stop at a mere whippin’, I bet. Never had a sub that stuck.”

John was less than impressed by her speech. Sherlock had told him in the cab what his job was and John wasn’t stupid. He’d seen all types of Doms on the war front. Sherlock wasn’t anything near a sensualist, that was the simple truth. And he knew too many who were excited at the prospect of death, too many that would do anything, one that would laugh at the terror- John jerked away from that thought.

Sherlock wasn’t here for the body. No, John had seen the way his eyes lit up as he talked of his job. Sherlock was here for the mystery, and that was completely different.

That kind of man was dangerous, the type who had very little regard for who got hurt for his pleasure. John knew that. Yet here he was, practically shivering with anticipation.

John gave Donovan some false thanks and quickly followed after Sherlock. He caught up with him as the Dom from earlier was putting on a blue plastic suit. Detective Lestrade, Sherlock had told him in the cab.

“Why’s he here?” Lestrade asked with a raised eyebrow. John wondered at how similar the expression was to one of Sherlock’s. He figured they must spend a lot of time together. He wondered if Lestrade was a friend of Sherlock’s, but he couldn’t be sure with so little to go off of.

“He’s with me,” Sherlock answered Lestrade’s question with a challenge in his tone.

John stepped closer, letting Sherlock stake his claim despite the fact that it implied more than what actually existed.

He didn’t let himself examine the stab in his gut that said that he very much wanted it to exist.

Lestrade backed down. “Have him suit up, then,” he said, knowing better than to directly address John after Sherlock’s show of possessiveness.

John didn’t wait for Sherlock to say, he merely stripped his coat and stepped into the plastic. He noticed that Sherlock hadn’t put one on, but Lestrade said nothing so he didn’t either.

Sherlock put a hand in the small of John’s back, guiding him as they walked up the stairs. They reached the body, a high class sub dressed all in pink.

And then Sherlock got to work.

“Brilliant,” John said as Sherlock managed to not only deduce the woman’s adulterous nature but where she was coming from, what type of sub she was, and that her message was to ‘Rachel’, not a German exclamation.

“You realize you say that aloud?” Sherlock asked as Lestrade shook his head in amazement.

John blushed. “Sorry, I’ll stop.”

“No, it’s quite flattering actually,” Sherlock said through a small smirk, to hide the faint blush on his own cheeks.

John smiled.

Then Lestrade was moving them along and Sherlock was back to work. As he raced down the stair, John followed closely, blinking as Sherlock yelled “Pink!” up to the detective.

Sherlock ran out the door of the house and John hurried to keep up with him, until he realized that he still had the plastic suit on. “Wait!” he cried as he shrugged it off and grabbed his coat. He nearly ran outside, only the limp preventing him from actually doing so, only to sigh in relief as he saw Sherlock standing at the edge of the crime scene.

“I thought you’d left me,” John admitted a bit weakly as he stopped in front of the Dom.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth, then closed it. He stood for a moment, studying John. “I play the violin, sometimes in the middle of the night,” he said suddenly.

“What?” John blinked at him.

“I will probably forget about you, sometimes. I can’t cook or clean, I make messes everywhere,” Sherlock continued. “I consider myself a highly functioning sociopath and I am a sadist of the highest degree. I have killed before, I do not regret it.”

Sherlock’s eyes were cold as he assessed John. This was a hard Dom looking at him. John was beginning to understand. “So have I.”

Sherlock’s façade softened slightly. “That doesn’t bother you?”

John shook his head. “I like cooking, I don’t mind cleaning, and I am a masochist,” he stopped and licked his lips, staring straight up at Sherlock. “I would like to go back to working on medicine at some point. I am not a house sub.”

“I don’t want a house sub,” Sherlock admonished.

“I get nightmares. I’m scarred,” John went on and this time he dropped his face from Sherlock’s gaze. “I have this damn limp and I’ll never be graceful.”

Fingers found their way under his chin and forced him to look up. “I don’t care,” soft words were said on his lips.

And then Sherlock was kissing him, hard and brutal. Claiming his mouth, claiming him. John tensed. It was crazy, he thought. Too soon, too fast to be feeling all he was feeling. But something told him to trust this man and that same reckless attitude that took him into war now told him to let it go. To let this man, this Dom, take care of him.

John surrendered to the kiss, letting Sherlock pull him closer. Sherlock’s mouth broke from his and he let out a sound at the loss of contact, which he would not call a whimper, despite the fact that it sounded like that; he did have some manly pride after all.

Then he felt hot breath on his neck, followed by a kiss, a questioning kiss. John relaxed his head back, baring is neck. His fingers tightened on Sherlock’s coat as teeth bit into his skin.

Sherlock drew his head back and bit harder, intensifying the pain and solidifying the bruise that was sure to form. He released John’s skin and John shivered as the cool night air reached the still wet mark.

John gasped a breath and leaned his head against Sherlock’s chest. Arms wrapped all the way around him, warming him completely.

“We’ll get you a collar tomorrow,” that warm voice promised. “I do hope this will suffice til then.”

 _A collar?_ John wanted to question. _You haven’t even asked me._

But Sherlock didn’t really need to, did he? John knew what his answer would be, Sherlock knew what his answer would be. Hell, even Mike and Lestrade probably knew what his answer would be.

Instead, John just nodded into the Dom’s chest.

Sherlock hugged him tighter.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite Sherlock’s promise, he didn’t take John to get a collar the next day. Instead, they spent the morning moving all of John’s things into 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had already moved in, John learned, and he could tell that he would have his work cut out for him on the cleaning front.

Sherlock disappeared sometime after lunch and John immersed himself in his self-appointed task of organizing their new flat. He didn’t know what to do, at first, with the eyeballs in the microwave or the severed foot in the freezer, but after a couple of minutes of careful thinking he thought it best to leave them be. Sherlock was a sadist, a detective, and definitely not society's definition of normal. John would just have to get used to the man’s eccentrics.

John was just figuring out that organizing the flat was going to be more than a day’s worth of cleaning when Sherlock came back. In his arms was a startlingly pink suitcase.

“Is that-?” John gaped as Sherlock set it down on the chair he’d just cleared off.

“What else would it be?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and effectively unzipped the bag, pulling it open.

John stared at him for a moment, then he shook his head and went to the kitchen to make them both tea. He wanted to ask- but he kept his mouth shut.

Of course, Sherlock was perceptive if nothing else and when John handed him his cup, he closed the suitcase and sat back on the couch. “It was no great feat…” he began.

John sipped his tea as Sherlock explained the logic that led to the pink case being in their flat and once again he was stunned at the brilliance of the man. There was really no one like Sherlock in the world.

And that man wanted him.

Him. Wounded, scarred, and damaged him.

Sherlock was watching him and John turned his eyes away, embarrassed at the direction of his own thoughts.

_Snap._

John looked up reflexively at the noise, already moving before his brain caught up with him. One glance at Sherlock showed him waiting, though, so he quickly got out of his armchair and kneeled on the floor besides him.

Sherlock snapped again, twice, and John shifted on his knees, unsure what he was being asked for. He looked up, trying to find a clue in Sherlock’s face, but the Dom was giving nothing away.

John licked his lips, eyes moving from Sherlock’s face to his own knees and back again. He clenched his hands into fists and then relaxed them. He didn’t know what Sherlock wanted, but he was willing, whatever it was. He already accepted Sherlock as his Guardian, was even ready to be collared. Or at least he thought so.

And they hadn’t even done anythi—

Oh.

John glanced up one more time and this time Sherlock’s eyes showed approval. That was it then.

John took a deep breath. It was hardly the time John had imagined, what with daylight streaming through the window and their cups of tea cooling on the side table, but then John wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had taken him against a wall last night so he supposed he shouldn’t complain.

With that in mind, John relaxed completely and moved his hands to strip off his vest and shirt underneath. Chest bare, he bared his neck to the watching eyes and waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough, Sherlock’s fingers were brushing over his collarbone and down his chest, feeling, cataloguing. With a soft tug, John stood and Sherlock effortlessly removed his trousers and shorts.

Naked now, John felt a flush creep over his face. He was very conscious of the scars that littered his skin, not the least of which being the one on his shoulder; the marred flesh having never healed right.

Of course, that was the one Sherlock focused his attention on. “This was doctored on in the field,” he said, thumb rubbing over the knot of white flesh.

It wasn’t a question, but John nodded anyways.

He wasn’t looking at Sherlock’s face, but John could imagine the curiosity in the man’s eyes. He was probably recreating the scene in his mind, figuring out the exact circumstance it would take to make the mess that was left.

John didn’t think it would take him long.

He was right.

“You did it,” Sherlock breathed. “You were alone, there was a bullet embedded in your bone, and you dug it out with your fingers.”

John shivered, remembering the day like it was yesterday. It had taken hours for help to arrive, and when it did it was too late to fix the majority of damage he’d already done to his shoulder.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

John took a deep, shaking breath. “I didn’t,” he stopped then began again. “I didn’t want anything of his in me. Not—”

“He raped you,” Sherlock’s voice had grown cold.

John nodded slowly. It was hard to admit, even to himself. But it had happened, over and over until he was so broken that he didn’t even care for his own life anymore.

“I ripped his throat out,” John was saying before he even registered that he was going to explain. “There were only twenty of them, that day. I ripped his throat out and stole his knife and killed fifteen before I ran.”

“When did he shoot you?” Sherlock’s thumb still rubbed the wound. The movement soothed John and the tension he didn’t know he had eased away.

“Right before,” John said. It had been too much, the sound of the shot. The knife he could take, the brutal rape he could take, but the sound of the gunshot sparked the fire in him that had been swept away by the events of his capture and he’d acted before thinking.

John wondered if Sherlock would leave him now. He wouldn’t blame him, now that his troubles were becoming clear. At least he’d gotten it out early, before he could get too attached.

He ignored the voice in his mind that said he was already too attached, far too attached to the man he’d only met yesterday and yet it seemed as if he’d known forever.

Sherlock withdrew his hand from John’s shoulder and John closed his eyes. This was it, he thought, and waited for the words that would probably break his slowly healing heart.

“Go to the bedroom,” Sherlock said and John’s eyes snapped open. But Sherlock wasn’t finished. “Lay on the bed, on your back. Wait there.”

John looked up at the man, at his Dom. Sherlock’s eyes were cold and he flinched despite himself. Swallowing the bile in his throat, he nodded and did as told.

John didn’t let himself think as he walked to the bedroom. The bed had soft sheets, the quality of both them and the mattress significantly better than the motel bed he’d been sleeping on. He closed his eyes, spread his arms to either side of him and waited.

He strained his hearing until he could barely make out movement downstairs. He didn’t know what his Dom was doing, but he couldn’t do anything about it now.

When Sherlock finally came up, John had relaxed on the bed as far as he could with the anticipation curling in his stomach. John opened his eyes, appreciatively roaming them over Sherlock’s now bare chest. The man was fair, so much fairer than he, with only a couple of dark chest hairs curling up from between two pink nipples.

He was perfect.

Sherlock held a set of cuffs in one hand and he attached John’s arms to the bed without any words passing between them.

Then he settled in between John’s legs and smirked.

John felt himself go just a bit red, but he spread his legs a bit further to facilitate his Dom. Sherlock’s smirk widened.

They sat there like that for several minutes. John couldn’t help but be confused. Sherlock wasn’t touching him, wasn’t doing anything but staring.

After a moment of questioning himself, John gave an inward sigh and tugged at his bonds. They were tight and barely moved on his wrist. Pleased at the knowledge that he was very much secured down, John let himself sink into the bed, rolling his shoulders back so that he wouldn’t be too sore in the morning.

Sherlock’s smirk turned into a real smile and this time John gave into the blush that threatened his face.

“I want to do so many things to you, John,” Sherlock whispered then and brought a hand up to lightly trace from John’s navel up to his neck and then back again. “I could blindfold you,” he said with just a bit of contemplation in his tone. “Or perhaps a gag.”

John shivered and his eyelids dropped down to half-mast at the thought.

“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock curled his fingers, nails raking on John’s flexing abs. “I could turn you around. I’d love to see your muscles move around my riding crop. Or maybe my cane.”

Sherlock’s voice was dropping deeper, huskier as he continued to stroke John’s chest. John’s breathing quickened.

“But not tonight,” he continued.

John’s heart beat, a shot of disappointment mixed with anticipation.

“Do you know why John?” Sherlock brought his other hand up and grabbed tightly at John’s hardening cock.

John arched his head back, bringing it back up quickly to continue watching Sherlock’s mouth move as he spoke. He’d never been this hard from just some petting and words before. He’d never seen the appeal of phone sex, but he supposed that if Sherlock were on the other line, he’d be able to come just from the sound of the man’s voice.

The mere thought hardened him even further and John gave a little gasp as Sherlock’s hand twisted up and down.

“Tonight,” Sherlock continued. “I will take you. No toys, not even my whip. Tonight you will come with me in you, I will accept nothing else.” Sherlock’s grip tightened painfully on his cock and John moaned. “Do you understand, John?”

It took John’s frazzled brain a moment to realize he was expected to answer, but when he did he quickly nodded. Then, knowing that wouldn’t be good enough, he said, “Yes, sir.”

The hand stroking John’s chest reached up and tweaked his left nipple in approval. “I would love to wait, John, to take you to the edge again and again, until you’re begging me to let you come.” Sherlock took a slightly shaking breath and John felt momentary satisfaction that he was able to do that to a man who had such control over himself. “I do, however, think I’ve waited enough.”

And then Sherlock’s hand was reaching over and grabbing a bottle of lube. John almost wanted to protest, to say that wasn’t needed. He knew he would tear without, but he relished the pain. He wanted the pain.

“You’ve been without a Dom too long,” Sherlock said, reading the words before they’d even left his mouth. “Give me control.”

John closed his eyes, both to the sensation of Sherlock’s finger entering him and to the words. One fingers was followed all to quickly by another. They scissored, digging deep into his anus and curling.

John groaned in pleasure, bucking as fingernails scraped lightly in the underside of his cock. “Sherlock,” he whispered, voice rough with need.

“I’ll take care of you, John,” Sherlock told him.

There was another finger inside him now. He wanted to squirm, to get them to go deeper, but just as he thought he couldn’t take this slow torture, not after so long without anything, the fingers left without warning. John practically whined at the loss, and then the weight on him shifted and he tugged at the cuffs on his wrists, desperate to touch, to do something.

“Let it go,” Sherlock told him. “Give it all to me.”

John twisted in place, gasping as the hand on his cock tightened painfully around his balls. “Sherlock!” he yelled.

“Let it go,” Sherlock’s voice had hardened.

Unable to say no to a command like that, John fell back into the bed and nodded, tilting his head to the side to bare his neck.

Sherlock gave a little growl of pleasure, and then John was being entered roughly.

“God,” John gasped. “Sherlock, Sherlock,” he groaned.

Sherlock folded down, his chest touching John’s as he thrust hard, pulling nearly all the way out before coming back in.

John was being filled in that moment and he remembered, suddenly, why he’d loved this so much before… before…

“Mine,” Sherlock growled, teeth biting hard on John’s open neck.

John gave a chocked sob as Sherlock’s hand pumped him faster and all past memories, trauma and otherwise, left his mind. “Please, please, please,” John moaned, “Sherlock!”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock nipped at his adam’s apple. “Come, now!”

And John did, seed bursting from his in a tight spurt as he rolled through the orgasm. It took only two more thrusts before Sherlock was coming in him, hot seed filling him up.

John collapsed, breathing hard. He couldn’t help the whimper that came from him as Sherlock pulled out and unclasped the cuffs.

“Relax, John, I’ve got you,” Sherlock told him, voice soft now with pleasure. True to his word, he curled up around John.

John had always been a bit clingy after sex and he was only glad that Sherlock seemed to be okay with that as he burrowed his face in his Dom’s neck. Sherlock’s arms wrapped tightly around him and John felt his body hum with the need to sleep.

A sudden thought hit him and suddenly he was very conscious of the seed that was coming out of his anus. “Sherlock,” he whispered. “We didn’t use condoms.”

Sherlock chuckled, the sound vibrating his chest. “We’re both clean, John.”

John almost asked how he knew, but then he stopped himself. It was Sherlock Holmes, of course he knew. He probably checked even before they’d met for dinner.

Satisfied he wasn’t going to come down with some disease (not after he’d miraculously caught nothing permanent in Afghanistan, in uni, with his past-), John relaxed in Sherlock’s hold and, ignoring the sunlight streaming through the windows and the fact that he’d be sticky as hell when he woke again, he feel asleep.

~.~.~.~

“Thanks for letting me know,” Lestrade’s voice was a bit weary.

“Sherlock’s bad about keeping you in the loop, isn’t he?” John said with just a touch of fond exasperation. He was glad now that he’d decided to call the detective. He didn’t want his Dom to get in trouble just because the man had forgotten to inform the police of the found suitcase.

“He probably wants to keep it for a bit longer, doesn’t he?” Lestrade said.

The detective seemed to know Sherlock pretty well, John thought to himself. “Yeah, I think so. He keeps staring at it.”

“Probably theorizing,” Lestrade seemed to agree with John’s own assumption. “Well, just don’t let him damage it too much, we’ll need it for evidence.”

“I’ll try,” John promised. “I’ll keep you informed.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade sounded rather relieved to hear that. There was a pause, then, “I’m glad he has you.”

John frowned, surprised at that. “Sir?”

Lestrade gave a bit of a strained laugh. “You know, Sherlock Holmes is a great man. But with you, I think he might actually be a good one.”

Now that confused John. “If you say so.”

Lestrade let out a sigh. “It doesn’t really matter. Well, I need to go inform the team. Thank you again, Dr. Watson.”

“It’s no trouble,” John assured him. “Goodbye, Detective.”

The phone beeped, signaling the end of the call. John put it down, staring at it for just a moment before he shook himself and glanced over at the pink case. He hoped Sherlock would make a plan for it soon, it was starting to creep him out.

“Was that Lestrade?” Sherlock wandered into the room, frowning at him.

“Yep,” John told him. “I was just updating him.”

Sherlock’s frowned deepened for a moment, but after a moment it left. “That’s for the best, I suppose.”

John hid his grin. “I thought so.”

Sherlock turned suspicious eyes on him and John realized that the man must have seen the smile. “Come here.”

John walked over quickly, relaxing against his Dom’s chest as Sherlock pulled him into his chest. “Lestrade’s not turning you against me, is he?” The tone was light, but the words weren’t and John quickly shook his head.

“No, nothing like that,” he reassured. “Actually,” John blushed, “he thinks I’m good for you.”

Sherlock leaned down and brushed his teeth over John’s ear. “Is that so?” he said in a low voice.

John’s breath caught in his throat. “Y-yes.”

John could practically feel Sherlock’s smirk. “Well than, I suppose you’ll just have to convince me.”

John heard the challenge and he smiled. “I suppose I will.”

Sherlock chuckled and with that John resigned himself to another evening spent in bed.

But then, as Sherlock’s eyes darkened with lust, he told himself he didn’t really mind.

~.~.~.~

John ignored the strain in his arms as he carried the grocery bags home. Well, that wasn’t quite right. He ignored them only to the extent where he realized that he’d better start working out. His body was used to a constant strain of activity. If he didn’t put it to work more, he might get out of shape and that certainly wasn’t what he wanted.

Besides, Sherlock liked his muscles, had even said so, and John wasn’t going to take away one of the few things about his body that he considered attractive.

The payphone to his right rang, startling John out of his thoughts. He looked at it, confused, and kept walking.

Barely half a block later the phone in the store to his left rang and then stopped before the attendant could pick it up. John frowned.

Another block and another phone rang. John ignored it, only to have another phone ring right at the next intersection.

The fifth phone was yet another payphone and John finally gave up, curious despite himself as he stepped into the booth and set down the grocery bags.

“Hello,” he said into the phone.

“Dr. Watson,” a smooth voice said back.

John frowned. “Yes, who’s this?”

“Unimportant.”

John’s frown deepened, but the voice was continuing.

“There is a security camera on the building to your left, do you see it?”

John looked and blinked as the security camera swiveled back and forth. “What?”

“There’s another camera on the building opposite to you, do you see it?” the voice interrupted him.

Another security camera swiveled.

“And finally, on the top of the building to your right.”

Again, a camera spun around.

A cold shiver curled through John’s stomach and he suddenly realized his mistake. He reached for his cell, only to stop as a car pulled up next to the booth.

“Get in the car, Dr. Watson. Oh, and I wouldn’t if I were you.”

John’s grip on the phone tightened. What would Sherlock do? He wondered. Come looking, he hoped. But, no, only a week and he knew the man too well. His Dom wouldn’t know he was missing, not unless he wasn’t back by nightfall. And it was only the middle of the day. In that time, he could be taken anywhere in the country. Anywhere in the world, really.

John slowly hung up the phone and stepped out of the booth, leaving the bags just in case Sherlock did come. Not many people bought an extra large bottle of ammonia, after all.

The car door swung open and John got in, closing the door behind him.

There was a lovely sub with a beautiful collar sitting in the other seat. John studied her as their driver merged back into traffic.

“Hello,” he greeted.

Her eyes flicked up at him, then back down to her Blackberry phone. “Hi.”

“I’m John,” he introduced.

“Anthea,” she said without even looking at him.

“Is that your real name?” John asked, frown coming back.

She looked at him again. “No.”

John sighed and turned to look out the window, hoping to be able to discern where they were going. He still had his cell, and he had Sherlock on speed dial. He wasn’t in deep shit, not yet anyways.

The car stopped in an abandoned part of town near the docks and John got out without having to be told, limping on his cane to meet the man standing there.

“Have a seat, John,” the man said.

“You know, you could have just phoned me, on my phone,” John said a bit hostilely as he stopped next to the chair waiting, it seemed, for him.

The man smiled, dangerous behind his bland exterior. John recognized the smile, but he couldn’t place where.

“When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet,” the man said and John stiffened despite himself. “Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you, please sit down.”

“I don’t want to sit down,” John told him, adopting a military stance.

The man’s eyes glistened. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You don’t seem very frightening,” John snarked, and it was true. The man was an obvious Dom, and yes, he seemed very powerful, but John had faced worse.

To his surprise, the man laughed. “Yes, I suppose you have faced worse. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you agree?”

John tried not to let the surprise show on his face. The man was trying to goad him, he realized. He wasn’t going to give in.

The man barely took a breath before he continued. “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John blinked. “I think you know.” A man that could control the city’s security cameras probably knew all about his past week.

The Dom was not be deterred. “Since last week, you’ve accepted him as your Guardian, moved in with him, and now you’re solving crimes together. Should I expect a happy announcement soon?”

John was sure hoping so, but he wasn’t going to say that. “Who are you?”

“An interested party,” the man smiled.

“Interested in Sherlock, why?” John knew why someone would be interested in his Dom, but he thought it prudent to ask anyways. “You’re not friends.” That much seemed obvious.

The man chuckled. “You’ve met Sherlock, how many friends do you think he has?”

John thought of Lestrade and Mike and even Mrs. Hudson. _You’d be surprised_ , he thought. Though maybe not conventional friends, they certainly weren’t strangers.

“I’m the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock is capable of having,” the man was continuing.

“And what’s that?” John asked.

“An enemy,” the man answered easily.

John was once again reassured by the weight of the phone in his pocked. “An enemy?” he inquired coolly.

“In his mind certainly. He’d probably say his archenemy, if you asked him,” the man twirled his umbrella, eyebrows furrowed. “He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well thank God you’re above all that.” John moved his gaze over the Dom’s shoulder.

“Do you plan on continuing your association with Sherlock Holmes,” the man asked suddenly.

“As you said yourself, he is my Guardian now,” John said. And possibly more, he thought. He hoped.

The man’s lips twitched. “If you plan to stay with Sherlock at,” he pulled out a brown notebook from his inside jacket pocket and glanced in it, “221b Baker Street, I’d be willing to pay you a meaningful sum of money to give me information.”

“Information?” John inquired.

“Nothing you’d be uncomfortable with,” the man assured.

“No,” John shook his head.

“I haven’t mentioned a figure,” the man seemed surprised.

“Don’t bother,” John told him.

“You are very loyal, very quickly,” Sherlock’s archenemy said.

“I’m not interested,” John insisted. “Are we done?”

The man’s eyes were very dark, yet something about them was familiar. John held his ground under their intensity, but half of his mind was working hard to figure out why he recognized them.

“You tell me, Dr. Watson,” the man said.

John shifted his weight. “Okay, bye.”

The man didn’t try to stop him as he left. Anthea did approach him, not even looking up from her phone as she said she’d take him back.

John said nothing to her, mind still on the mystery of the new Dom as the car pulled up to 221b Baker St.

Sherlock was on the couch when John walked in. It was still day outside, but John knew he’d been gone far longer than what would be normal.

A part of him wondered if Sherlock would care.

But, no, Sherlock took one look at him and stood immediately. John ruthlessly pushed the traitorous thought to the back of his mind. Sherlock may be sadistic and a little oblivious on human emotions, but he wasn’t completely socially oblivious, not from what John had been able to tell.

That same part of John's brain wondered if perhaps he was just special.

John pushed that thought away, too.

“What happened?”

And John told him, trying to say exactly as he remembered it. He knew quite clearly that Sherlock was a genius, that there were possibly many who would use him to get to the man. He’d known that since that first night they’d spent together.

Well, they’d soon learn that he wasn’t one to go without a fight.

After John had finished, Sherlock sat back down, blowing out through his nose. He looked deep in thought for a moment, slightly angry, even if John was being honest with himself.

Then Sherlock looked up back at him and his expression changed to one of exasperation. “Come here,” he ordered.

John shed his coat and knelt down beside his Dom, leaning his head into the man’s knee. He relaxed into the fingers that easily found their way to his short-cropped hair.

“Who was he?” John asked finally, curiosity winning in the face of common sense.

Sherlock’s fingers did not even pause in their ministrations. “Possibly the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, and not my problem right now,” he sighed out. “If he approaches you again, remind him of Christmas 1997.”

Now John was very intrigued, but he said nothing except, “As you wish.”

Sherlock stopped stroking him suddenly and John bit his lip to keep from showing his disappointment. “There’s a number on the desk, I need you to text it.”

John leaned in closer for just one moment, before standing and walking over to the desk. He saw the number and frowned. “Isn’t this the dead woman’s, Jennifer Wilson’s, number?”

Sherlock was looking at the ceiling. “Yes, now text these words exactly.”

John listened with one ear as Sherlock told him the text, typing it as quickly as he could. When he finished, he set his phone down and went to go get them both tea.

He came back, handing a cup to Sherlock. “So, why did I just text a dead woman’s phone?”

Sherlock explained almost absentmindedly as he continued to stare at the ceiling.

“Hold on,” John choked out. “Are you saying I just texted a serial murderer?”

Sherlock turned to him at that, but before he could say anything, John’s phone rang. John reached for it, showing it to Sherlock. The number was withheld.

“Any random person who’d ignore a message like that, but the murderer…” Sherlock trailed off.

John dropped his phone. “The murderer is calling me,” he said somewhat faintly.

Sherlock was staring at him. John bristled for a moment, realizing how weak he had sounded. “I’m sorry,” he told his Dom, “I don’t think I’m as used to this as you are.”

Sherlock laid his head in one hand, still staring. “You are safe with me,” he said softly.

John froze for just a moment. That sounded like reassurance. He didn’t need reassurance. He was goddamned ex-military! “I can protect myself, you know,” he said hotly before he could stop himself.

John closed his mouth the moment the words left his lips. He really hadn’t meant to say that. Adrenaline was still rushing through his body from the not-quite-kidnapping and he was high on the emotional turmoil of the conversation.

Sherlock was still staring at him, but this time it was a hard sort of stare. John didn’t like that, but before he could figure out a way to apologize, to take it back, Sherlock was standing. John could only watch as his Dom walked into their bedroom.

From the noises, it sounded like Sherlock was searching for something. He came back into John’s line of sight only minutes later holding a slender black box.

John recognized it immediately for what it was. “Sherlock,” he breathed out. “Sir, you don’t have to.”

John didn’t want to be collared because Sherlock though that he felt unsafe. He was content, he honestly was, with the way things were.

But Sherlock’s lips were quirking up and the Dom snapped his fingers.

John kneeled, but he kept his eyes on Sherlock as the man approached.

“John,” Sherlock said softly. “I was going to wait until tonight, but I think that now is as good a time as any.”

John reeled back at the realization that Sherlock had been planning this. And now he’d screwed it up. “I’m sorry, sir,” John said quickly. “I didn’t mean to-”

Sherlock shook his head, cutting John off. “No, John. You are mine; that is all that matters. It is time that others know it to.”

He stopped, fingering the box, before opening it and carefully pulling out the item inside.

It was a supple silver band, looking almost certainly platinum, John thought with faint disbelief. On the front was a plate that said simply  _Sherlock_ in curved gold letters. There were no gems or sparkles- it was plain and yet elegant in its simplicity.

It was perfect.

John looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. And then, knowing just as he had known a week earlier that he really had no choice, that he was already too deep, he slowly lowered his head, baring the back of his neck.

When Sherlock’s sure fingers clicked the collar in place, he couldn’t ignore the jolt that ran through his whole body.

He was suddenly filled with the knowledge that he truly did belong.

Sherlock pulled John to his feet and in close. “Let’s go to bed, shall we,” his Dom whispered in his ear.

John gave him a kiss of agreement.


	3. Chapter 3

John found that he flourished when collared. He practically beamed under the curious stares of the store clerks who recognized him, until he realized he was being ridiculous and cut back on his obvious joy.

But there was joy in his every step. Knowing that he was well and truly secure in his position in Sherlock’s house was something John hadn’t realized he’d needed, but need it he did.

In thanks, John threw himself into making their home more livable. Mrs. Hudson, nearly just as happy for him as he was, helped by bringing him snacks and tea as he went through boxes and boxes of what seemed to be junk.

His only big problem came when Mrs. Hudson took away Sherlock’s skull. It took him nearly two hours of needling and pleading to get it back from her, but he knew how much Sherlock liked the gross thing so he wouldn’t let it go. After that things went much more smoothly, to John’s extreme satisfaction.

He’d just finished up the last box when Sherlock arrived from God knows where. Ecstatic as he looked around the now organized flat, John practically tackled his Dom.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose as he wrapped his arms around John. Before he could say anything, John latched his lips on Sherlock’s in a quick kiss. Just as he was pulling back, Sherlock leaned down and pressed the kiss on, ravishing John’s mouth with his own.

John moaned and melted into Sherlock. By the time Sherlock broke away, he’d truly forgotten about the reason he’d tackled his Dom in the first place. That was, until he turned and saw the clean living room.

“What was that about, then?” Sherlock mused, one hand curled around John’s neck in a distinctly possessive, and pleased, gesture. “No, wait, let me guess. You’ve finished organizing our flat?”

John flushed at the pronoun ‘our’ and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he murmured, delight coursing through him at the thought.

Sherlock smiled a bit indulgently at him. “Well, I suppose that is cause for celebration,” he said. “Change clothes, John, we’re going out.”

John blinked. They hadn’t gone out since the very first night and Sherlock hadn’t even been his Dom at that point. Curious now, he escaped to the bedroom to change out of his dusty sweater and jeans and grab his cane.

He limped less than he used to, no longer needing it around the house. His therapist, whom he still saw every Tuesday evening, said it was likely because of his new status and his need to impress his Dom. But, despite the fact that it was completely psychosomatic and therefore he shouldn’t need the help, John found himself liking the comfort of the cane when going out. Though if one more person gave him a funny look because of it, then he might just leave it at home next time.

One five-minute walk later found John and Sherlock at the door of a restaurant on Northumberland Street. John suddenly rememberd why they needed to be here. The shot of disappointment that curled through him was a bit of a shock. Sherlock was hardly obligated to take him out just because he’d finished unpacking. And besides, it was his fault that he’d forgotten about the set up they’d planned.

When John was sure he had control of his emotions, he turned to Sherlock. “Lestrade’s in position?” he asked.

Lestrade had been rather exasperated when John had relayed the text Sherlock had had him send. It was only lucky that Sherlock had put off asking the murderer to meet them at Northumberland Street until Lestrade had gotten together a strike force.

Sherlock had been, through John’s phone, making the murderer believe that Jennifer Wilson was still alive, though amnesic and confused. As such, they had been able to set up an ambush to catch him that night.

And John had lost track of the time whilst cleaning.

Sherlock herded him inside the diner with a nod instead of an answer. John let him, smiling as a greying man rushed up to them just as they sat down at the window corner booth.

“Sherlock,” the man greeted with an exuberant handshake. “Here’s your menus, anything you want is on the house for you and for your sub.”

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced with just a trace of a smile.

John knew Sherlock well enough at this point to recognize it as an ‘oh great another fan’ kind of smile. He wondered briefly if Sherlock really minded as much as he seemed to when his fans gushed over him. He certainly seemed to have no problem taking any of them up on their generosity.

“This man got me off a murder charge,” Angelo was telling John. John listened to his story with just the right amount of interest, scanning the menu with one eye. They were nearly half an hour earlier than the time Sherlock had given the murderer to meet ‘Jennifer Wilson’ at 22 Northumberland. And John was hungry.

“We’ll take the dish of the day, to split,” Sherlock said, eyes trained on the street as he told Angelo the order, effectively cutting off the end of the man’s story.

Angelo chuckled. “Aye, sorry 'bout that. I talk too much, eh. Well I’ll let you two get back to your date.” And with that, he left.

John turned to Sherlock, whose eyes were now on him, the corners crinkled in what was Sherlock’s famous half-smile. John loved the warmth in that gaze, loved it deeply, but that was too much to bear now and he turned away under the scrutiny of it.

Angelo dropped by just for a second with glasses of water and a candle that he promptly lit, giving them both an exaggerated wink.

John looked at the flame, mesmerized by it for just a moment before Sherlock spoke and drew his attention away.

“Tell me about your training,” he said.

John’s head snapped up and he stared. “My training?” he asked, confused. “When I was a teenager?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Yes, John,” he said in an easy tone.

John bit his lip in thought. He doubted Sherlock would let him evade the question. Like all teenagers, his parents had encouraged him to explore his sexuality and dynamic with his peers under supervision. He’d quickly found a liking to pain and just as quickly was given an older mentor. It was considered a bit dangerous for a higher-level masochist to explore with someone who wouldn’t be able to tell if they were permanently damaging their partner.

“Well,” John began. “I rated about a seven on the Masochistic Scale for preliminary testing, once I told my parents that I thought I was a sub. I was fifteen, I think.”

“You didn’t spend much time with others your age after that,” Sherlock deduced quickly.

“No, I was given an older mentor. A friend of the family, actually. He was,” John struggled to come up with an adequate description, “strange.” Good at the beginnig and John was thankful for that time. By the end... well John tried not to think about that part.

“How so?” Sherlock seemed honestly interested.

John scrunched up his nose. “He was borderline manic depressive and it effected, at times, what aroused him.” John shook his head as the memories started flowing.

Sherlock blinked, which as far as John could tell was the only way he ever showed surprise. “And your family knew and allowed him to train you?”

“Yes, well, I suppose he was an adequate mentor regardless. I mean, he helped me find my maximum pain threshold and showed me what I should never allow a Dom to get away with, no matter how much they ordered.”

John closed his mouth, wondering if he’d said too much, but Sherlock was nodding. When John was silent for too long, he prodded with the question of, “and what is your maximum pain threshold?”

“Um, well I’m an overall high eight on the scale,” John told him, suddenly realizing that they had never said before. That was supposed to be one of the first things two people told each other when they went to play. It was only safe.

Well, John figured, he and Sherlock were hardly conventional.

“Only a eight?” Sherlock seemed to let a little disbelief show in his tone.

John blushed. An eight out of ten was very high to many self-proclaimed masochists. In fact, a masochist wasn’t considered so by the government unless they were a six or above. “What are you?” John asked then, suddenly curious about his Dom’s sadism.

“Max ten,” Sherlock answered blandly.

John was saved from having to say anything by the arrival of their dish and two clean plates. He thanked Angelo and looked at what seemed to be some sort of poultry (he was going to guess duck) and spiced zucchini. It smelled mouthwatering.

“I should have known,” John said finally as he loaded food on Sherlock’s plate, enough to keep him healthy but not so much that Sherlock wouldn’t eat all of it. “To be honest, the only reason the testers didn’t make me a nine was because of my lack of tolerance to piercing and,” John blushed, “to cock torture.”

“Ah,” Sherlock noted. John supposed he was remembering the way John’s erection had notably flagged the other night when he’d moved his suede flogger from John’s thighs to his balls for just one brief swing.

Shrugging, John loaded his plate with food and began eating. “Oh, this is really good,” he said as he swallowed another bite of the duck. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and then began eating as well. John waited a couple minutes before asking, “so, um, as a ten did you have to, um…”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head.

John furrowed his eyebrows in thought. Usually a ten on the Sadistic Scale was required to submit to more training under supervision, even once they’d reached adulthood, as well as extreme psychological profiling to make sure they were mentally stable. “Why not?”

Sherlock shrugged. “My family intervened.”

John frowned, wondering then about the Holmeses. Sherlock had never mentioned any relations before. Even John talked about Harry occasionally. “Your family?”

“It’s almost time,” Sherlock said instead of an answer.

John accepted the change of subject as he looked at his watch. Quickly he finished a last bite of duck and stood. Sherlock had a quick, whispered conversation with Angelo, and they left, walking slowly towards the house numbered 22.

“That cab has been sitting there for about five minutes,” Sherlock said suddenly.

John looked quickly at the cab in question, which was parked in front of 23. “You think?”

Sherlock nodded and sent a quick text to Lestrade. “It must be, there’s already a passenger, don’t you see.”

John did see, though he couldn’t make out much from this distance and through the tinted windows. Before they’d reached the vehicle, three cop cars came around the corner, sirens blazing. The cab jolted forward suddenly and Sherlock broke into a run, John following.

Around the next corner up they found the cab blocked off by another car, the copper getting out with a gun (a rarity, but then this was a possible serial murderer), yelling for the passenger to put his hands up.

John stood back, watching as Sherlock yanked open the door and dragged out the passenger. He was so relieved that he almost didn’t notice the figure slink from the driver’s door and into the alleyway.

Until he heard Sherlock curse and he realized where they had gone wrong.

 _Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_  Sherlock had asked earlier.

Without another thought, John ran after the escaping cabbie.

Of course, he told himself. How could they have been so blind? No one noticed the cabbies, and they’d said that the person who killed Jennifer Wilson must have driven her to the ratty townhouse. It was so obvious, right in front of their noses, and they hadn’t seen it.

Sherlock hadn’t seen it.

John stopped, realizing he’d lost sight of the cabbie. He didn’t realize he was in trouble until he felt the cool press of a gun against his side.

“Don’t move,” the gruff voice of the cabbie told him.

John froze. How had he not noticed the cabbie sneak up on him?

 _Because you were still reeling over the fact that Sherlock deduced something incorrectly_ , the nasty part of John’s brain told him.

Goddammit.

“John!” And suddenly Sherlock was there, staring at the cabbie and John with what could only be horror on his face. Horror, and then deep anger.

John flinched as the cabbie’s free arm came around his neck, choking him and forcing him to the ground in one move. John’s neck muscles tightened against the new pressure, but the murderer was pushing his collar into his skin and he gasped aloud as it suddenly became hard to breath.

“Is she dead?” the cabbie asked Sherlock, voice deceptively calm. Referring to Jennifer Wilson, John supposed. Of course the murderer would want to know if he’d really killed his victim.

“Let him go,” Sherlock said instead and there was something deeply primal about him as he stared at the cabbie.

That primality sent a wave of pure longing down John’s spine. He knew then that it would all work about, that somehow he and Sherlock would get past this mess. They’d be okay.

And with that, John relaxed into the cabbie’s grip. Remarkably, the move allowing him to both breathe easier and to clear his head.

That’s when John realized that there was something wrong with the gun pressed to his side. He knew, even in the dead of the night, the difference between a real gun and a fake gun. And that was not a real gun.

John’s eyes moved to Sherlock’s, then back to the gun. He hoped Sherlock would get his meaning, but the other man seemed focused only on the cabbie.

John cursed at himself, wondering what his next course of action should be. He didn’t have to worry about whatever toy it was that the murderer held against him, but in his position, the cabbie could just as easily choke him to death. Which, he realized, was probably why the man had put him in the hold in the first place.

Well, okay then. John bit his lip, tuning into the conversation going on above him.

“Don’t you want to know how I did it?” the murdering cabbie was saying.

“I know how you did it,” Sherlock said coldly. “Held a gun to their head and forced them to take the pill, didn’t you?”

“Is that all,” the cabbie laughed. “Is that all the great Sherlock Holmes can deduce?”

Sherlock practically snarled. John almost jerked back at the expression in his Dom’s eyes. This went beyond primal, this was dangerous. He wondered if the cabbie was suicidal, or just stupid, for provoking him like that.

But the cabbie was continuing on. “Sure, I used my gun a bit, but that’s not all I did, is it?” The cabbie fumbled with something, moving his gun away to grab something in his pocket. If John hadn’t realized it was a fake before, that would have clued him in. Most would remove the arm on his neck and keep the gun on, but instead the cabbie just tightened his arm again and John was back to concentrating on breathing.

The cabbie soon held up a small bottle that he threw at Sherlock. Sherlock caught it with one hand, only giving it a small glance. John could just make out the speckled pill inside.

“I gave them a choice, you see,” the cabbie was saying. In the hand that held the gun was another bottle with another pill.

John remembered how Sherlock said that all serial murdering geniuses wanted to be caught, wanted to explain their brilliance. He could definitely see that now. Sherlock hadn’t even asked him and the man was going on about his master plan.

“Choose either bottle, I said, and I’ll take the other one. 50-50 odds.” The cabbie seemed very proud of himself, but John could hear the note of hysteria in his voice.

“50-50 choice, or the gun,” the cabbie was continuing.

“Just chance?” Sherlock’s voice was smooth. He too heard the hysteria then. The police would probably be coming around the corner any second and the cabbie’s gun was fake. He didn’t know that John, and probably Sherlock, knew, but he was sure the police would realize it.

John’s knees were beginning to ache from kneeling stiffly on the ground, but he ignored them.

“Not chance, it’s chess,” the cabbie insisted. “A game. I’ve played four times, and I’ve won.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “Why play?”

The cabbie’s hold tightened on John and he gasped against the new pressure. Okay, it was really hard to breathe now.

“No, don’t tell me, I know,” Sherlock murmured. “It has to do with your kids.”

“How?” the cabbie’s voice sounded strangled. John wished for just a minute to see his face and then he laughed inwardly at the irony. Strangled… well he wasn’t the one currently seeing black spots.

“The picture in your cab,” Sherlock told him a bit smugly. His eyes were still only on the cabbie and John wondered why he was so devoutly avoiding meeting John’s gaze. “The woman, the mother I assume, was cut out, but the kids.... It was an old picture. You aren’t allowed to see them, are you?”

The cabbie’s grip loosened and John knew that Sherlock had to be right. “They won’t get much after I die,” the cabbie admitted. “Not much money in driving cabs, you know.”

“Not much money in serial killing, either,” Sherlock noted.

The cabbie’s laugh definitely had hysteria in it. “You’d be surprised.”

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I have a sponsor,” the cabbie admitted after a heartbeat.

“A sponsor….” Now Sherlock was really looking interested. John shot down the momentary jealousy, but hey, he was being slowly strangled here and his Dom was more interested in the bloody cabbie’s murdering sponsor.

“A fan of yours,” the cabbie said. “He warned me about you, you know. But I don’t think he knew about your pet.” The cabbie’s grip tightened and John coughed, lungs frantically trying to find air. “The great Sherlock really has a sub, I wondered, but you care for him else you would have killed me.”

Sherlock’s gaze swept over to John for one brief moment and John suddenly realized why he hadn’t done so before. He looked positively murderous as he returned his eyes back to the cabbie. Primal, yes. Dangerous, yes. John knew Sherlock was both of those things. But this went beyond even that. This went to what Sergeant Donovan had told him that first night. In that instant, John fully believed that Sherlock could murder the cabbie in cold blood and he would enjoy it.

John wondered briefly if he should be scared by that thought, but he found that he wasn’t. This was proof, concrete proof past the collar on his neck, that Sherlock did actually care about him. John hadn’t wanted to admit to himself before how much he needed to be cared for by someone like Sherlock, but he did. Sherlock didn’t care for many people, so to hold a place in his home, in his heart, allowed John’s somewhat fragile self-image to grow to that confidence he’d had before he’d been thrown out of the army.

It seemed that his therapist was right; John was healing at Sherlock’s hands.

Except that now he was at the mercy of a frankly sick man and Sherlock would most definitely be sent to jail, or at least intensive therapy, if he tortured the man to death like he seemed to most desperately want to.

“Who?” Sherlock growled. “Who is your sponsor?”

John had never seen Sherlock lose his composure before but his Dom was getting awfully close right now.

He needed to do something, John told himself. The gun was fake and he was having a hard time breathing. He needed to get out of the cabbie’s hold.

“No one speaks his name,” the cabbie said with awe in his tone and John took his chance while the man was distracted.

Without warning, John surged upward, head connecting with the cabbie’s chin. The cabbie’s hold loosened enough to allow John to break free and he stumbled forward, the sudden influx of oxygen making his light headed as he tripped over the uneven ground.

“John!” Sherlock shouted, startled.

John rolled to look back at the cabbie. The man had recovered and was now pointing his gun at Sherlock. “Don’t move,” he warned them both. “Or I’ll shoot.” His hand was trembling even as his voice broke with fear.

John stood up slowly, muscles shaking. He stepped backwards into Sherlock’s space, relaxing only minutely when Sherlock’s hand came to wrap around his arm, supporting him up.

“I said, don’t move!” the cabbie yelled.

“Go ahead and shoot,” John said, voice cracking. His lungs were working overtime to make up for the loss of oxygen his body had suffered.

The cabbie’s eyes widened and John could tell the moment he realized John knew the gun was fake. Without another word, he sprinted off.

Sherlock only took three steps to tackle him to the ground. John was not far behind him and he saw it as if through a haze as Sherlock’s arm came to crush the cabbie’s windpipe.

“Get off me, let me go,” the cabbie yelped. Sherlock ignored him in favor of grabbing all the fingers on his left hand and pushing them back until they snapped.

“Stop, stop, please I’ll turn myself in, just stop,” the cabbie begged pathetically as Sherlock’s other hand pushed his shoulder back, straining it to the point of breaking.

“You hurt what is mine.” Sherlock’s voice held no emotion as he broke the cabbie’s shoulder with a distinctive crack.

John stared as the cabbie screamed in agony. Sherlock was moving onto his other arm, this time crushing at the elbow.

“Tell him who your sponsor is,” John said, thinking quickly. “Tell us and he’ll stop.”

Sherlock jerked at the sound of his voice, but he continued to bend the cabbie’s elbow at an unnatural angle.

The cabbie was sobbing now. “Okay, okay, okay.”

“Tell him!” John shouted.

“Moriarty!” The cabbie screamed out as Sherlock finally succeeded in breaking the elbow backwards. “His name is Moriarty!”

And then the cabbie was a sniveling mess, begging and pleading, until soon no words were distinguishable as he screamed and sobbed on the ground.

John felt vomit rise to the top of his throat and he stepped forward, placing his foot on the side of the cabbie’s head and turning it around. Sherlock's weight held him down and the cabbie’s neck broke in a sick pop.

Sherlock stayed hovering over the dead body for a moment longer, but then he straightened completely and turned to John. “You killed him,” he said, eyes dark.

John flushed. “I know you wanted to, but it didn’t seem right, him suffering like that.”

Sherlock frowned, but then running footsteps made them both turn. A whole horde of policemen were coming down the alley, one of them shouting in his radio.

~.~.~.~

Lestrade was staring at the body with disgust on his face. “So,” he said. “What happened?”

Sherlock held John at the waist. “He hurt John,” he said as if that was all he needed to say.

Lestrade sighed. “I’m going to put this down as self-defense, then,” he said wearily. John supposed that he understood Sherlock better than John did, both being Doms and all. Subs weren’t usually as protective, and despite John’s experience with the army he couldn’t imagine torturing someone just because they’d hurt Sherlock. Sure, he’d probably kill them, but torture was another matter.

“Can we go home?” John asked, his voice still a bit hoarse. The paramedics had already examined his throat and though he’d have some impressive bruises in the morning, he would recover with no problem.

They’d wanted him to take off his collar to speed along the recovery, but both he and Sherlock refused. If he could heal with it on, then he would take the extra time and deal with it. Their relationship was strained just a bit too much at this point for John to be comfortable without the reassurance of the metal against his skin.

He was only glad Sherlock hadn’t ordered him to follow the paramedic’s suggestion; he wasn’t sure what he would have done had his Dom allowed the removal.

Probably give into the hysteria that threatened at the edge of his conscious.

Lestrade glanced at him, but his eyes didn’t linger. Sherlock’s grip on his waist tightened and John inwardly sighed. Daft possessive Doms.

“Sure,” Lestrade said finally. “Go home, but drop by the station tomorrow so I can get your statements.”

Sherlock nodded sharply and practically dragged John away. They reached the main street easily enough and began their walk back home in silence. Until John remembered something and he groaned.

“I forgot my cane at Angelo’s,” he said when Sherlock shot him a look.

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I’ll have him bring it by tomorrow,” he promised easily.

And just like that, John felt better.

They said nothing more as they reached the flat and climbed up the stairs. At the top, Sherlock froze and John almost ran into him. “Sherlock, what-”

He cut himself off as Sherlock took one more step and allowed John to see the man sitting on their sofa. It was the Dom who’d kidnapped him the week prior.

John stepped up closer to Sherlock and whispered quickly, “That’s him, that’s the man I told you about last week. Your archenemy.”

“I know exactly who that is,” Sherlock said in a low voice. “What are you doing in my flat, Mycroft?”

“Please, Sherlock, no need to be hostile. Come sit,” the Dom, Mycroft, said pleasantly.

This was too much to deal with in one night, John thought faintly. All he wanted to do was curl up in the bed with Sherlock’s arms around him and sleep. Why did this man have to come today? Couldn’t he have invaded their private domain tomorrow, or better yet, not at all?

Sherlock herded John to the love seat and sat down next to him, never letting go. His eyes were fixed on the intruder. “Say what you have to say and leave, Mycroft.”

“Come now, isn’t it time we put aside this petty rivalry,” Mycroft smiled. “You know how it always used to upset Mummy.”

“I upset Mummy?” Sherlock sounded incredulous.

John glanced between them, pieces suddenly clicking into place. He knew he’d recognized that Dom’s smirk from somewhere. It was the same as Sherlock’s. And now that John looked, they had the same nose too, though Mycroft’s build was stockier and his eyes just slightly darker.

“You’re brothers?” John asked slowly.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered as if it were obvious.

“Wait, so when you said you care,” John turned to Mycroft. “You really do care?”

Mycroft looked pained. “Of course I care.”

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Congratulations on your collaring,” Mycroft told them a bit cheekily. “Oh, and on catching that serial killer too. A cabbie, how strange.”

“How did you know that?” John asked.

“My brother here is the power behind the British government,” Sherlock scoffed. “When he’s not too busy being the MI6, or the Secret Service. He even dips into Interpol occasionally.”

Mycroft laughed. “Oh, please, I occupy a minor position in the world of politics. My brother exaggerates.”

John wasn’t really sure he believed either of them, but a sudden thought hit him. “Do you recognize the name Moriarty?”

Mycroft’s smile fell and he stared at John with his dark eyes. Sherlock pulled John closer to his body, the hand on his hip squeezing slightly in warning.

“Where did you hear that name?” Mycroft asked slowly. There was no more cheer in his voice, he seemed instead deadly serious.

“You have heard it before,” Sherlock said before John could answer.

Mycroft took in a quick breath. “Don’t mess with Moriarty, Sherlock,” he warned. “That man has contacts all over the world. No one has been able to catch him.”

“He’s a master criminal, then?” John assumed.

“He’s  _the_  master criminal,” Mycroft corrected. “I ask again, where did you hear that name? None speak of it and live.”

John looked at Sherlock, but his Dom seemed deep in thought. “The cabbie,” he said finally. “Said this Moriarty was sponsoring him. He’s dead now, though I suppose you know that.”

Mycroft relaxed slightly. “Okay, that makes things a little easier,” he murmured. “Don’t speak the name to anyone else, either of you.”

John nodded for both of them. “Got it.”

Sherlock’s eyes cleared for just a moment. “Is that all?”

Mycroft stood. “For now. I’ll see myself out.”

“Don’t be a stranger,” John called, intensely curious about the only family member of Sherlock he’d met.

Mycroft chuckled. “I’m sure we’ll meet again Dr. Watson. Do try to keep my brother out of trouble.”

And with that, he was gone.

John turned to Sherlock only to find that Sherlock was watching him.

“Can we go to bed?” John asked tiredly, standing up as Sherlock did.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “You are mine, John.”

It took John a moment, but then he realized what this was. Sherlock needed reassurance that John wasn’t going to leave him over the whole cabbie thing, or maybe run off with his brother (and really, Sherlock, where did that train of thought come from?).

John pushed back the yawn that threatened to escape. “Yours,” he agreed. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he chuckled at his own joke. “Please Sherlock, I’m tired. Can we talk in the morning?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “Okay,” he said.

Satisfied, John went to turn away, only to have Sherlock catch his arm.

“John,” he whispered, seeming still a bit uncertain. “You’re sure?”

John turned back to his Dom, sighing. “I’ve never been more sure,” he said truthfully. “You’re mine too, you know.”

Sherlock’s face cleared and he nodded. “Bed,” he said. “We both need it.”

John snorted and followed his Dom into the bedroom.

They’d be just fine.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock was using John’s laptop when he left the kitchen to check on him. John paused for a moment. “Is that my computer?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said without even looking up.

John shook his head, letting it go easily. “What’s mine is yours I suppose,” he sighed. “Can I borrow some cash? We’re low on milk.”

Sherlock glanced at him, lips quirking in a smile. “Take my card.”

John did. He was running low on funds himself and it was starting to bother him. Though since Sherlock had collared him it was, supposedly, his responsibility to make sure they weren’t at a want for money.

When John came back, arms laden with groceries, there was something off. Sherlock was still at his computer, but John couldn’t help but think that something had changed.

He found the scratch on the table as he set the bags down and sighed. “Sherlock,” he called as he walked into the living room. “What did you do?”

“What do you mean, John?” Sherlock asked as he continued to stare at the screen. “I’ve done a lot of things.”

“Well, which one of those things put a scratch on the kitchen table?” John asked, arms crossed.

Sherlock closed the computer and turned in his chair to face John. “The Turkish case I was working on.”

John raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“They didn’t like the message I sent,” Sherlock shrugged.

John’s eyes gravitated towards the scimitar on the floor. He rubbed his temples, suddenly exhausted. “Okay,” he said mildly. “Mrs. Hudson asked me about the rent yesterday.”

Sherlock just looked at him. John bit his lip. He didn’t know the best way to say this.

“Do I need to get a job?” he asked finally.

Sherlock looked momentarily confused, but soon his face cleared. “Ah, you are wondering if we are low on money,” he shook his head. “We’re well off, John. I’ve already added you to my main account. Your own card should be arriving in the mail any day now,” he paused. “Wednesday unless they have more than two people sick at the post office from that stomach flu going around.”

John felt amused despite himself. Trust Sherlock to know exactly what he was getting at and solve it even before he realized it was a problem. “Great,” he said. “But you know, I would still like to get a job.”

Sherlock nodded. “We did talk about it, and yes, I think you need one.”

“Need one?” That confused John. “I thought you just said-”

“Not for the money, John,” Sherlock interrupted him. “You feel stifled sitting around the house all day. You are not meant to be a house sub. We both know that. Find a practice that wants you and let me know, we’ll work out your hours. I still want you to join me on some of my cases, but that’s not enough for you long term.”

John smiled. “Sure,” he agreed. “I’ll look around.”

Sherlock held out his hand and John walked forward, kneeling in front of Sherlock’s chair. “Lestrade is right,” Sherlock murmured.

“About what?” John asked as he looked up at his Dom.

“You are good for me,” Sherlock said. “And you don’t even realize it.”

John reached a hand up to clasp one of Sherlock’s, intertwining their fingers. “What don’t I realize, then?”

Sherlock smiled at him indulgently. “You balance me.”

John snorted. “Balance you?”

Sherlock’s free hand came to rest at John’s cheek, forcing him to maintain eye contact. “You do, John. More than I ever thought a sub would. But perhaps it’s just you.”

“I don’t get it,” John said.

Sherlock let go of his cheek. “I know.”

John huffed out a breath. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I appreciate you. That’s all.”

John didn’t really believe that was all, but the gesture warmed his heart anyways. “I appreciate you too, you know.”

“I do,” Sherlock nodded. He stood, pulling John up with him. “Put away the groceries, and then we need to go to the bank.”

“Why?” John asked curiously as he stepped away towards the kitchen.

“An old friend has asked for some help on a break in,” Sherlock said. His tone on friend wasn’t very convincing and John frowned.

“Um, well,” John paused. “Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, it will be,” Sherlock said with just a touch of sarcasm.

~.~.~.~

“Sherlock!” a rather greasy-looking Dom greeted as they were showed into his office.

“Sebastian,” Sherlock said with only a trace of pleasantry.

John watched the interaction between the two. _Friends, huh?_ he thought with a mentally raised eyebrow. _More like barely amiable acquaintances_.

“And who’s this?” Sebastian asked as he turned to John. His eyes narrowed when his gaze came across the collar on his neck.

“My sub, John Watson,” Sherlock introduced with a sort of tenseness in his tone.

John could take a hint and so he stepped closer to Sherlock, relaxing as his Dom’s arm came to wrap around his waist. “Pleasure,” he said simply.

Sebastian’s face seemed frozen for a moment. “Ah, yes,” he stuttered out finally before regaining his composure. “Please, sit.”

Sherlock prodded him into the chair that sat just slightly back from the desk. John understood the body language and he wondered just what the history between the two Doms were.

He was still trying to figure it out when Sebastian started speaking. “You know, Sherlock and I went to uni together. We, that’s my friends and I, never thought Sherlock would ever find a sub who would put up with him.”

That was frankly insulting and John frowned as he glanced at Sherlock. Sebastian seemed to misinterpret the move. “Never had any tact, Sherlock did,” he said with a nasty grin. “He had this trick he did. You’d come down to breakfast and he could tell who you’d been shagging the night before. Said it aloud for anyone to here.”

Sherlock’s face was tightening. “Yes, been around the world twice this past month have you, Sebastian?”

“Ah, see, there it is!” Sebastian crooned. “What was it, is there a stain on my tie that only comes from a certain ketchup you have to buy in Manhattan?” He glanced at John as if to see if he was impressed.

John resisted the urge to snort. The hell did this man think he was, trying to make him doubt his Dom? Like he was honestly going to declare that Sebastian was the better man and go kneel at his feet? Seriously, that didn’t even make sense in John’s head.

From the way Sherlock’s fingers were twitching, it was getting on his nerves too. “No,” he said slowly. “I was just talking with your secretary.”

Sebastian blinked, and then chuckled weakly. “Oh.”

“Let’s get to the point, shall we?” Sherlock said.

“Of course,” Sebastian pulled at the collar of his shirt.

Half an hour later, Sebastian had explained the mysterious break in and shown them both the paint signs left behind as well as the layout of the office on the computer downstairs. “Tell me how they got in,” he told Sherlock. “This is in advance, the rest after you’ve got it figured.”

“I don’t need an incentive,” Sherlock said, his eyes already taking on that look he always got with mysteries.

“He’s kidding,” John said as Sherlock walked off to go back upstairs. “I’ll hold onto that for him, shall I?”

Sebastian scowled at him, but handed over the check anyway. John glanced at it and nearly sagged at the amount. Okay, wow, if that was what Sherlock was used to making on his consulting cases then they were definitely well off.

Not to mention with Mycroft Holmes as a brother, John didn’t know how he could have ever thought they might be in need of money.

“So, what’s he giving you?” Sebastian asked as they waited in his office for Sherlock to finish his sleuthing.

“Sorry?” John turned from watching Sherlock dance around the office back to the greasy Dom.

“What’s he giving you?” Sebastian repeated. “For this little heist?”

“Giving me?” John let his confusion show on his face.

“Don’t be daft,” Sebastian rolled his eyes. “It’s obvious you’re not actually his sub. Sherlock Holmes would never keep someone long term. He must have put you up with this to try to fool me, but I’m not biting.”

John gaped. “You think-” he shook his head. “You’re wrong, I am Sherlock’s sub.”

“Come on now,” Sebastian said, slapping him on the shoulder. “I won’t tell him, you can continue on pretending and get your sum. I’m just curious, that’s all. A hundred? Fifty? How much?”

“If Sherlock needed someone to pretend to be his sub, he’d get it for free,” John informed the man, shaking off the hand on his shoulder. “But I’m not pretending. I’ve had his collar for several months.”

“Well, that’s not too long,” Sebastian said. “I suppose he’s just now starting to get on your nerves, right? He’s not the most human of sadists, that one.”

“Stop it,” John snapped. “Just stop insulting him.”

Sebastian put up his hands as if to placaite him. “Oh come on now, you can’t say you’re that loyal,” he dropped his hands, sneering. “How bout you come home with me tonight and I’ll show you what a real Dom is.”

John’s jaw fell open and stayed there for about thirty seconds before his brain caught up. “You must be joking. You’re half the man Sherlock is and you don’t even realize it,” John shook his head. “He could have refused to come here, you know. He doesn’t have to take your petty insults. I don’t have to take your petty insults. Frankly, I don’t understand why he hasn’t told you to go stuff yourself yet, but I will. Go. Stuff. Yourself.”

Sebastian took a step back, but then something dark came over his face. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

“Said what?” John growled, annoyed beyond belief. “You’ve got nothing on my Dom. You’re a greasy slimeball. I bet you slept your way to your position. Hell, you probably had to blackmail, I don’t know why anyone would sleep with you.”

Sebastian looked ashen with fury. “How dare you say that to me, you little whore? You’re nothing, just an empty hole to fuck. Subs like you are worthless pieces of trash. So don’t you dare insult me or I’ll bend you over my desk and whip you until you’re begging for me to stop.”

“I’d like to see you try,” John snarled. “I beg for one person and one person only, and that’s my Dom. I’m a fucking level eight masochist, you bastard. You’ll never compare to Sherlock and you know it.”

Sebastian shook with rage. John saw the hand coming before it hit and he grabbed the incoming wrist in a tight hold.

“What?” Sebastian cried out and John squeezed down hard.

“I invaded fucking Afghanistan,” he hissed. “You think you can scare me?”

John let go with a push, causing Sebastian to take a few stumbling steps back. He looked around, realizing that everyone on the floor was staring at them openly. Sebastian’s office door had been open.

Oops, he thought. Looks like Sebastian won’t be getting a promotion anytime soon. Verbal garbage like that just wasn’t accepted in the workplace anymore.

“You’ll pay for that,” Sebastian steamed. “I’ll have you to a cross before the day is done, John Watson.”

“That’s enough.”

John relaxed against his Dom’s chest as Sherlock enveloped him from behind.

Sebastian took one look at Sherlock and his eyes widened. “Sherlock,” he gulped.

“You’ve insulted my sub,” Sherlock said with no friendliness in his voice. “You asked me here to help you, and yet you’ve called my sub a whore, instigated that our relationship doesn’t exist, and tried to hit him. I could have  _your_  ass on the cross by the end of the day.”

Sebastian took a faltering step back. He whipped his head around, suddenly realizing the attention they were receiving.

“But I won’t,” Sherlock continued. “It’s hardly worth my time. I’ll solve your case, Sebastian, not for you but because it intrigues me. However, if you insult my sub one more time, there won’t be anywhere on Earth you can hide from me.”

John felt Sherlock’s arms tighten around him. There was more to their supposed friendship, he thought. He wondered if Sebastian had stolen a sub from Sherlock at uni, but he didn’t feel it a good time to ask.

Sebastian said nothing. After a moment, John felt a pull and he followed Sherlock out of the office and down the escalator. Only when they were outside the bank did Sherlock talk.

“Edward Van Coon,” he said, showing John the nametag he’d taken from the door. “His office is in plain view of the sign and he is a Hong Kong trader, comes in a midnight.”

“We’re going to his house now?” John asked.

Sherlock glanced at him. “Yes,” he paused. “Unless you need…”

John stopped and Sherlock stopped too. Slowly, John reached up and grasped Sherlock’s coat. “I’m sorry you had such crappy friends,” he whispered.

Sherlock leaned down and took his mouth in a searing kiss. He pulled back after a long moment, his eyes brighter now. “You’re all I need, John. Don’t ever let anyone hurt you.”

“You too,” John said. Then, to lighten the mood, he grinned. “Don’t worry, I could have taken him with one arm tied behind my back.”

“I have no doubt,” Sherlock chuckled.

John knew Sherlock was still hurting over the cabbie on their first case together. He’d been the man’s hostage for only about fifteen minutes, but it was long enough to damage their new relationship. They’d be living with the repercussions of that for a while yet.

“Let’s go,” Sherlock said after a moment. “I have a feeling there is more to those signs than just graffiti.”

John nodded and let go of his Dom’s jacket. Sherlock caught his hand and held it as they continued walking.

John squeezed his fingers, reassured.

~.~.~.~

John stared down at the body of Van Coon with a frown prominent on his face. Sherlock was looking at the man’s suitcase, mumbling, “He’s been gone three days.”

“He killed himself, then?” John asked.

Sherlock stood and began examining the body. “No,” he said as he pulled out a black piece of paper from the dead man’s mouth. “He’d been threatened.”

A policeman John didn’t recognize walked up as Sherlock bagged the paper.

“Ah, Sergeant,” Sherlock greeted. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Is Lestrade on his way? I called him nearly half an hour ago.”

“Dimmock,” the cop introduced. “Lestrade’s busy. And it’s not Sergeant, it’s Detective Inspector.”

John could see as Sherlock tensed at that. He wondered why- surely it wasn’t too hard to work with someone else?

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Dimmock cut him off.

“I know who you are, Mr. Holmes, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tamper with the evidence,” Dimmock said with his arms crossed.

Ah, John thought. Of course, no one but Lestrade would put up with Sherlock’s investigative tactics.

“Detective Inspector Dimmock,” John said before Sherlock could make things worse for himself. “Could you tell us what you have figured out?”

Dimmock glanced at him, eyes running over John’s collar in much the same way Sebastian had, but oddly it seemed to relax him instead of make him more hostile. “I say it’s rather obvious that we’re looking at a suicide.”

John began to nod, but Sherlock snorted.

“Not obvious,” he disagreed. “That is merely one conclusion of a small number of the facts and it is hardly the correct conclusion at that.”

“What?” Dimmock looked as startled as John felt.

“Honestly,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The bullet is on the right side of his head. Van Coon was left-handed.”

Dimmock gaped as Sherlock pointed out his reasoning with gestures to the clues around the flat. John could see that despite the logic behind it, the detective wasn’t buying.

“Look, Holmes,” Dimmock finally spat. “I know you don’t respect me as much as your precious Lestrade, but I’m still in charge of this case. It looks like a suicide, so it’s probably a suicide.”

Sherlock stared. Even John thought that sounded a bit daft. I mean, yeah it looked like Van Coon killed himself, but as John would know it was hard to shoot with your non-dominant hand. He too was left-handed.

“We’ll just have to wait for the ballistics report then, shall we,” Sherlock said. “Good day, Detective.”

John gave the poor man a sympathetic smile and left with his Dom.

~.~.~.~

John smiled brightly at the head of the surgery, a beautiful Switch named Sarah, as she looked up from his resume.

“Well, you’re a bit over-qualified,” she said with an amused shake of her head. “But I can’t say that we don’t need the help. We have two submissive doctors working here, but one’s on maternity leave and the other has that nasty flu. I’ve already had a number of Guardians complain about their subs having to see some of my more dominant doctors.”

John nodded. “I can understand that.”

Sarah bit her lip, looking down at the resume then back up at John. “Shall we set up another time so that I can meet with your Dom before you get started?”

“Ah, yes,” John fingered his collar. “When is best for you?”

“If you could start tomorrow, that’d be great,” Sarah said immediately. “But I understand if your Dom doesn’t want something that short notice.”

“No, that should be fine,” John reassured her. “We’ll be back right when you open.”

Sarah still looked unsure. “You sure your Dom won’t mind?”

 _Ah_ , John thought, _she’s worried that if I push too hard then my Dom will put the whole thing off all together. Well, she doesn’t know Sherlock_. “We’ve been talking about this for a while,” he reassured her.

Sarah smiled. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” John agreed.

With that, John said a quick goodbye and left. By the time he got back to the flat, he was grinning, excited about the new prospect of work.

Sherlock was looking at the pictures of the painted ciphers from the bank when he stepped into their living room.

“She wants me to start tomorrow,” John said without preamble.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, but then he turned his eyes towards John. “Sorry?”

“I got the job at the Surgery,” John explained. “She wants to meet you first thing in the morning, if that’s okay, and she asked if I could start tomorrow. Apparently the two other sub doctors on call are unable to work at the moment and they’re short-staffed.”

Sherlock gave him a slow nod. “Very well.”

John turned his attention back to the pictures on the wall. “So, you think these were a message?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock murmured. “Here, look at this.”

John turned to the computer, quickly reading the article Sherlock showed him. “Brian Lukis?”

“Doors locked, windows barred, killed in his flat. Exactly the same as Van Coon,” Sherlock said with that excited gleam in his eyes.

John’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah…”

~.~.~.~

Dimmock glared at Sherlock.

“They are very similar,” John said, trying to diffuse the tension between the two.

“I don’t see how this-” Dimmock started.

“Did you get the ballistics report?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Yes, but-” Dimmock frowned.

“And was it Van Coon’s bullet in his head?” Sherlock pressed.

“No,” Dimmock huffed.

“I think, then, that this investigation would go a lot quicker if you took my word as gospel,” Sherlock hissed.

John laid a hand on his arm, understanding his Dom’s irritation but not liking it.

Dimmock stared for a moment, and then he visibly rallied himself. “Just because I’m not a Dom like Lestrade does not mean you can push me around, Mr. Holmes.”

John and Sherlock both stared at him. Dimmock flushed, but stood his ground.

Did he think? John snorted before he could stop himself. Dimmock looked at him, confusion coming over his face.

“I don’t care what your dynamic is, Detective,” Sherlock drawled. “I simply care about solving this case. You think I would treat Lestrade different if he were also submissive?”

“But-” Dimmock gaped.

“Lestrade knows to trust my word,” Sherlock informed him. “As you should. Now, I want into Lukis’ flat for five minutes at least. Do you think you can do that?”

Dimmock scowled, but it seemed suddenly less poignant.

Soon enough, John was standing next to Dimmock as Sherlock explored Lukis’ flat. They both ignored it as the Dom mumbled observations to himself.

“How do you deal with him everyday?” Dimmock asked with exasperation.

John tensed for a moment, mind flashing to Sebastian, but Dimmock wasn’t acting hostile anymore so he calmed himself down. “You adapt,” he said simply.

“I guess,” Dimmock frowned. “He really is brilliant though, isn’t he? I mean, I don’t see Lestrade letting him play around crime scenes otherwise.”

John could hear the admiration in Dimmock’s tone as he spoke of Lestrade. “He doesn’t play, you know. Lestrade only calls him for the worst cases and there hasn’t been one yet that he hasn’t solved.”

Dimmock look surprised at this news. “Really? I thought Lestrade was just putting up with him.”

John sighed. “No.”

“Oh,” Dimmock said. “So, Lestrade actually asks for him?”

“They have a mutual agreement,” John said. He leaned closer to Dimmock, figuring if he gave the detective this, the man might open up a bit more. “Don’t tell either one I said this, but I think they’re actually quite fond of each other. They act all huffy, of course, but on the inside they're rather soft when it comes to the other.”

Dimmock stared at him, then chuckled. “It’ll be our secret.”

John smiled, mission accomplished. Just then, Sherlock called them over.

“Our murderer came through the skylight,” he informed them.

“How?” Dimmock asked.

John considered it a personal success that the detective didn’t immediately down the idea and instead asked for clarification.

“He scaled the wall,” Sherlock said without looking at either of them. “Just like he climbed the apartment building at Van Coon’s and jumped down the balcony. That’s also how he got the cipher at the bank.”

“What, like Spiderman?” Dimmock scoffed.

Sherlock glanced at Dimmock and then at John. John gestured his head, trying to convey that it would be better to explain as much as he could.

Sherlock sighed. “More like a circus performer. A trapeze artist, perhaps. Maybe an athlete instead, a rock climber might be able to do it.”

Dimmock took a moment before he nodded. “Okay. I’ll have the squad ask around the neighbors, see if anyone saw someone scale the building.”

“I doubt they would, this man is a professional,” Sherlock said.

“Never hurts to check,” John interjected. He sent Sherlock a meaningful look.

Sherlock tilted his head than nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re correct. John and I are going to the library.” He held up a book. “Checked out on the day he died.”

Dimmock waved them off.

~.~.~.~

“What did you tell him?” Sherlock asked as they walked up the escalators at the library.

“Hmm?” John was looking around, marveling at the size of the building. He’d never been to this specific library and he hadn’t expected it to be so large.

“Dimmock. What did you say to make him accept my word?” Sherlock repeated.

“How do you know he didn’t decide to take your word as gospel?” John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock at least had the grace to blush a small bit of pink. “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did,” John cut him off. He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter I suppose. I get where he’s coming from, you know. I bet there are loads of people who don’t respect him just because of his dynamic.”

“He hides his Guardian’s necklace,” Sherlock remarked.

John remembered how, not too long ago, he didn’t have a mark of guardianship of any kind. “I don’t think he’s a bad detective, just a bit rash maybe.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock inclined his head as they reached the shelf where the book had come from. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“He rather admires Lestrade,” John said instead of answering.

Sherlock gave him a look.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John said. “It’s a sub thing, okay. Can’t give away all of our secrets, now can I?”

Sherlock huffed. “Fine, I won’t press.”

John smiled. “Great.”

“But,” Sherlock continued. “You’ll get twenty lashes from my crop for that.”

John stopped, shivering. Sherlock hadn’t used the crop yet this week. To his surprise it was as much his favorite toy as it was Sherlock’s, despite his previous lack of experience with the instrument. “Deal,” he said.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened briefly. “I’ve done you a disservice, I think,” he said slowly.

“Oh?” John said, resisting the urge to kneel where he stood. If he were being honest with himself, he was a bit frayed around the edges. So much had happened in the past few days and there hadn’t been time for anything but sleep, and even not much of that.

“I haven’t taken you down yet today, have I?” Sherlock gestured and John walked closer to him. “And here that rat Sebastian has touched you without me reaffirming my place in your mind.”

“I know your place,” John whispered. “You’re my Dom.”

Sherlock gripped him by the back of his neck and pulled him closer. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

“We’re in a library,” John reminded him, but he didn’t resist as Sherlock pushed him down to his knees.

“Then you’ll have to make it quick,” Sherlock told him, unyielding.

John’s fingers trembled briefly as he made quick work of the button and zipper on his Dom’s pants. He freed Sherlock’s cock in one subtle move, already feeling the edges of subspace trickling around him.

Once, he could go months without feeling the effects, but since coming back from Afghanistan John knew he was messed up. He was only calm after he’d been forced to submit; only really secure with a fresh memory in the back of his mind. He was needy and he knew it. He was only lucky that Sherlock seemed just as willing to dominate him on a very regular basis.

“Open your mouth, John,” Sherlock commanded without raising his voice more than a whisper.

John opened, tilting his head back to accept his Dom’s cock. He licked softly around the shaft, teasing light with his tongue.

“More,” Sherlock said. “Make me hard for you.”

Complying, John moved up and down, sucking on patches of wrinkled skin, feeling as the member slowly hardened. He moved one hand to caress Sherlock’s balls but at his Dom’s hiss he put them behind his back instead. Sherlock seemed satisfied with that, so John moved to take one ball in his mouth.

“Yes,” Sherlock moaned softly.

John gave the ball one last lick and moved onto the other. Before even a minute had passed, Sherlock was gripping at his hair, pushing his head back. It had been too long for him, too.

“Mine,” Sherlock growled.

“Yours,” John agreed against heated skin. His cock was throbbing hard against his jeans and he groaned for some release of his own, but he knew better than to ask at this point. He opened his mouth wide and relaxed his shoulders as Sherlock thrust in.

John kept his teeth out of the way and focused on controlling his gag reflex as Sherlock claimed his mouth in several vicious thrusts. His vision blurred and he closed his eyes, letting the motion roll over him.

Only the tightening of the fingers in his hair gave John any warning before Sherlock was coming hard in his throat. John swallowed as best he could, using his tongue to catch whatever semen had dripped down the edge of his mouth. Sherlock watched him, a possessive smirk coming over his lips.

“Sir,” John said softly, but Sherlock shook his head.

“You’ll wait until tonight,” he said, smirk widening. “You don’t come until I can be inside you, do you understand John?”

John lowered his head, struggling to control his raging erection, and nodded.

“Good,” Sherlock murmured in approval. “Stand up.”

John did, leaning in towards his Dom’s chest. It was kind of nice, how much taller than him Sherlock was. He usually didn’t like too much of a height difference, but with his Dom it was as if they fit together.

“I believe we may have knocked down a couple of books,” Sherlock sounded amused as he glanced at the floor behind John.

John looked over his shoulder, knees going weak as Sherlock took the opportunity to bite at his neck. Indeed, there were some books on the ground. Glancing up, John frowned.

“Sherlock,” he said. “The cipher.”

Sherlock pulled back from his neck, eyes immediately finding what John’s had.

John sighed internally as his Dom pulled away to take a picture of the paint sprayed on the back of the library shelf. His erection was already dying, but he ignored it. He knew better than to get in the way of Sherlock and a case.

Sherlock turned back to him, eyebrows raised. “Tonight, John,” he promised.

John nodded, already anticipating the sweet release he so craved. “Tonight,” he agreed. He could wait. He’d have to.

That thought brought goosebumps to his arms and John smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

“What now?” John asked as he followed Sherlock along the crowded street.

“We need to know what the cipher says,” Sherlock said. “That’s the key, that’s why the two men were killed.”

“Yes, okay,” John nodded. “So, how are we going to do that?”

Sherlock glanced back at him. “We’re going to ask for some advice.”

“Advice?” John blinked. “You need to ask someone for advice?”

Sherlock sighed. “I’m hardly perfect, John.”

“I know that,” John said, “but to hear you so casually admit it…”

“I’m not saying it again, I promise you that,” Sherlock said harshly, but the smile on his face took the bite out of it.

John snorted. They arrived at a back alley. In front of them a teen was spraying at a grey door. John expected him to run off, but instead he nodded his head to Sherlock and kept spraying.

“Raz,” Sherlock greeted. John frowned at the familiarity.

“Working on a new series,” Raz said with a grin. “I call it, ‘Blood Lust Frenzy’!”

“Catchy,” John muttered. Raz raised an eyebrow at him and John looked at Sherlock. This was his Dom’s supposed advice-giver?

“I’ve got two minutes before a community officer comes around that corner,” Raz said as he continued to add to his pig-cop graffiti. “Can we do this while I’m working?”

Sherlock handed the teen his phone. Raz threw one of his spray cans at John who caught it reflexively and then, slightly annoyed at being a pack mule, dropped it in the nearby bag. He listened with a half-a-mind as Raz explained what type of paint it probably was, but mentioned that he didn’t know the author.

“I’ll ask around,” Raz said finally. John noticed then the change in the teen’s demeanor as he looked at Sherlock. Subservience? Was Raz a sub, then? It was sometimes hard to tell with teenagers, many hadn’t in fact found their own dynamic yet.

John wondered what it was that had pushed Raz into a life of covert graffiti and the scars that seemed to liter the small amount of skin he showed. He wondered who Raz would have been if circumstances had been different.

“Hey!”

John turned to see the community officer come around the corner, baton raised. Raz took off immediately, Sherlock making as if to follow. After a couple of steps though, he backtracked and came to stand next to John, who’d stayed frozen in his spot.

“What’cha two doing? That’s vandalizing that is!” the community officer said gruffly as he looked at the spray cans.

“That’s what we were telling the boy, officer,” Sherlock said smoothly as he pulled John closer to his side. “To deface such a lovely building such as this, we thought it prudent to tell him the error of his ways.”

John kept his face blank as the officer glared suspiciously. To make the small lie more convincing (because he really didn’t want to go to trial over this) John looked at the man from under his eyelashes and turned on the sub-charm he’d been trained from his teen years to use.

“My Dom loves taking walks in the less crowded parts of town,” John said softly, trying to interject as much innuendo as he could.

The officer seemed to soften a bit as he looked at John. “Is that so?”

“I don’t like an audience,” Sherlock said, catching on.

“We’ve walked this path many times,” John continued. “It seemed so awful to suddenly have it ruined with slanderous images like this one.”

The officer’s nose crinkled as he looked at the graffiti. “Too true.”

John knew they were close to convincing the man so he turned his head towards Sherlock, displaying his neck to the officer as he did so. “Nasty kid ruined the mood, too,” he murmured as if to his Dom, though he made sure the copper could hear his words clearly. Pouting a little to add effect he added, “I was looking forward to feeling the wall against my back today.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he stroked the side of John’s face. “We’ll just have to find somewhere else, pumpkin.”

The cop was smiling then. “Kid’s gone then? Could you possibly describe him?”

“Dark hair and eyes,” Sherlock said immediately, “Latino, I believe.”

John nodded, thinking about Raz’s light skin and snorting internally. Latino, huh?

The cop nodded. “Well, I’d better call someone to clean this off, damn kids. Thank you both for doing your service to the Queen and England.” The copper’s face grew sly. “And I’m sorry about the interruption of your lovely day together.”

“It was our pleasure to help,” Sherlock said with a nod. “Now, I do believe my sub is in need of a good… well do you mind terribly if we go?”

The cop smirked. “Please, enjoy yourselves.”

Together, Sherlock and John walked away until they were immersed back into the crowd a few yard farther down.

Only then did John give into his laughing. “That was great! Pumpkin, sir? Really?”

Sherlock smirked. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you do that before.”

John leaned in closer as they continued along. “Yes, well, I haven’t really had a need to, have I?”

Sherlock kissed him lightly on the temple. “Stop trying to charm others, John, or I may have cause to get jealous.”

John rolled his eyes. “You know very well that I’m yours,” he scoffed.

“And you’ll never be allowed to forget it,” Sherlock agreed with his maddening smirk.

~.~.~.~

“The journalist’s diary, then?” Dimmock asked as he rifled through all the evidence.

“Yes,” John said. “Sherlock thinks that Lukis and Van Coon are connected somehow with what they did before they died.”

Dimmock shrugged as he pulled out a small black book. “Found anything so far?”

“Nothing you lot will be interested in yet,” John said, thinking of Raz. “I’ll let you know, shall I?”

“Do that,” Dimmock said, and then he sighed. “No one saw anyone scale the buildings, either at the bank or either of the flats of the two victims, but there is some rubble below the skylight that suggests that someone might have scaled that wall. There’s a window too, lower at the bank, that has a suspicious scratch the nearest officemate didn’t remember seeing before.”

“I’ll tell Sherlock,” John said. “That’s good news to support his theory, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Dimmock agreed. “Good luck with this lead. We’ll continue to look into people with the means to do that sort of climbing.”

“Thanks,” John smiled. “And for the record, this is how Lestrade would go about it too.”

Dimmock’s face brightened slightly. “Well, then, I’ll just have to get to it, won’t I?”

John chuckled and walked off, leafing through the diary.

~.~.~.~

“Ancient Chinese numbers,” John murmured. “So, they pilfer from China and the Lucky Cat is their drop off site. But why kill them, then?”

“One of them stole something,” Sherlock said contemplatively, “Something valuable.”

“And the killer didn’t know who stole it so he threatened them both,” John nodded in understanding.

“Remind me,” Sherlock said as he looked out the window. “When is the last time it rained?”

John shook his head as Sherlock raced towards his new goal. He paid quickly for his unfinished meal and followed. Sherlock stood in front of the door and frowned as he read the note written to one Soo Lin Yao. John watched his mouth and suddenly he flashed backed to the night before and just how talented that now frowning mouth could be.

Sherlock ran to the back of the flat and pulled down the rusty fire escape. It swung back up as he climbed it and John jumped to catch it, but missed. “Sherlock,” he called.

Sherlock looked back down. “I’ll let you in at the door.”

John frowned, remembering how long it had taken Sherlock to let him in at Van Coon’s. “I’d rather you not.”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then sighed and walked down a couple steps until the ladder had swung back down into John’s reach. John climbed up it, Sherlock already ahead of him and going in through Soo Lin’s back window.

John’s leg took that moment to stiffen up and he winced. Psychosomatic, yes, and he’d mostly recovered from it but on certain days that just didn’t seem to matter. His mind didn’t want to just forget about the limb completely. John stopped near the window and took a couple calming breaths, forcing himself to push back the limp and make his leg move properly again.

A loud crash from inside the flat cause John’s to jerk and before he knew it, he’d come in through the window. His eyes immediately found his Dom being strangled by a masked figure all in black and he acted without thought.

“Get off him, you bastard,” John yelled, punching the attacker in the head.

The attacker turned, seeming stunned. John took the momentary shock as an opportunity to incapacitate him and he surged upward with a knee to try to gut the black-clothed man. The attacker jerked and John’s knee hit his groin instead of his abdomen. The man fell backwards, groaning low. John punched at him, but the man was already getting up and fleeing towards the still open window.

John was torn momentarily between chasing after him and checking on his Dom. Sherlock won and John knelt by his side quickly. “Sherlock,” he said quickly even as he was checking for damage on Sherlock’s throat. “Talk to me.” He wasn't worried about his Dom’s lungs, but his voice box and esophagus could have also been affected by the strangulation.

“I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said semi-normally, easing his sub’s worries. He was already sitting up, looking towards the window. “That was him, the killer.”

“You think?” John asked as he continued to stroke the bruises on Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock caught John’s hands and held them. “I’m positive. Did you see his eyes, John?”

“No,” John said. “I was a bit too busy getting him to stop strangling you.”

“Dark, slanted,” Sherlock murmured. “Asian, likely Chinese.”

“Chinese?” John’s eyebrow’s furrowed. “Hang on, isn’t Soo Lin a Chinese name?”

“There’s a connection there,” Sherlock nodded. “Van Coon and Lukis were smugglers from China, possibly Soo Lin was the one selling the items. She lives right next to the Lucky Cat drop off, after all. Or maybe she was another smuggler.”

Sherlock stood, John standing with him. “I’ll tell Dimmock to look into Chinese men,” John said as Sherlock began to lead him towards the door.

“Sure,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “But we need to find Soo Lin. Her friend, the one who left the note. Yes, we’ll talk to him.”

John sighed, but inwardly he felt elated that they were getting closer to solving this crime.

~.~.~.~

John scribbled a couple notes on his medical sheet and set aside his clipboard. His last patient for the day had just left and he was exhausted. He knew that he wouldn’t be going home, as much as he wanted to, however. They had to go talk to Soo Lin’s friend at the museum, to see what he knew about the woman’s disappearance.

“Knock knock,” Sarah poked her head in. “You all done?”

“Just finished,” John said, standing with a groan.

Sarah handed him his bag, smiling sympathetically. “Make sure you get a nice cup of tea tonight, this crowd was brutal today.”

“Tea,” John sagged at the thought. “Sherlock’s got us both working tonight, I doubt I’ll get any tea.”

“Work?” Sarah asked not quite as lightly as she’d been before. “What kind of work?”

“Consulting,” John said briefly. “Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy it. But I’m a bit exhausted to be running around solving crimes at the moment.”

“Then don’t,” Sarah said and John suddenly realized how close she was standing. “Maybe you should just rest tonight. Let me take you home, give you some tea and a warm blanket. I can take care of you.”

John took a couple faltering steps back and stared. “Are you? Did you just?”

Sarah was looking at him intensely. “I really like you, John. And I’m worried for you. Your Dom-”

“What about my Dom?” John asked angrily. He couldn’t believe his boss was coming onto him. There were laws against that kind of behavior.

Sarah’s determined expression faltered. “Come on, John, you must see that he’s not good for you. He doesn’t take care of you like he should.”

“He’s my Dom,” John told her firmly. “He collared me. I let him collar me. I know exactly who he is and how much he loves me.” John’s breath nearly caught in his throat. Love? They hadn’t exchanged those words yet but John knew to the depths of his heart that he loved Sherlock and he was pretty damn sure that Sherlock reciprocated those feelings.

“John…” Sarah winced. “Please.”

“No,” John marched determinedly towards the door. “I like working here, ma’am, don’t push it. I will quit. I don’t need to work at all, hell both Sherlock and I could quit working and live comfortably for the rest of our lives,” as the bank account John had found out about indicated, “but I like my patients and I like being a doctor.”

Sarah crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she said smartly.

“Goodnight,” John told her. “I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

John ignored her eyes on his back as he walked away.

~.~.~.~

John exited the museum behind Sherlock. They were no closer to finding Soo Lin than before and it was clear that Sherlock was frustrated.

“Oy!”

John and Sherlock both turned to see Raz run up.

“There’s something you need to see,” he said as he reached them, speaking only to Sherlock. John tried not to let it bother him.

Raz led them to a skatepark filled with graffiti covering every inch of the concrete. He jumped down a couple steps and pointed towards one wall. John squinted his eyes, seeing underneath layers of other tags, the same yellow paint he now recognized. He felt a prickling on the back of his neck and turned, but no one was looking at them so he brushed it off.

“The best place to hide a tree is in the forest, wouldn’t you agree?” Sherlock said as he studied the cipher. “And this is exactly the same paint?”

“That’s it,” Raz nodded.

“We need to look for more,” Sherlock said, addressing John. “Thank you, Raz, your help was much appreciated.”

Raz looked for a moment like he could do anything in the world if only for more of Sherlock’s praise. John knew the feeling and just a bit of him softened. Shaking his head to dislodge the sudden alpha tendency – for he was the kind of sub to be protective of his own – John walked to the right, beginning to scan around for more of the paint symbols.

He was down on the train tracks when he heard footsteps and turned to see Raz following him at a safe distance. Sighing, he gestured with his hand, waiting until Raz had come closer before starting to search again.

They walked in silence for several moments, then Raz spoke softly. “That’s ‘is collar, right?”

“It is,” John said. “He collared me months ago.” He winced slightly at the reiteration of words, remembering when he’d said them to Sebastian.

“Do you-” Raz cut himself off. John waited until he got the courage to speak again. “Is he a good, um, does he make you…”

John took pity on the teen. “He’s the best Dom I’ve ever had,” John said truthfully. “I’m not saying he doesn’t have faults, but we all have faults, you know?” John breathed in deep through his nose. “He completes me.”

John saw Raz scowl briefly. “That’s a pansy-ass thing to say,” the teen muttered.

John reached out a hand and snagged Raz’s hoodie. “Raz,” he said as he looked the boy in the eyes. “I love Sherlock. I love him more than I’ve loved anyone. I’m not ashamed of it, it’s doesn’t make me less manly. I’m not a weak sub for admitting my feelings.”

Raz was frozen in place under John’s hand. John let go slowly and stalked away. He was angry at the kid, but mostly he was angry at the world for creating kids like Raz. How many people ended up hiding their dynamic because their families didn’t want a sub as a child? How many kids ran away, never got the training they needed before they were thrown in the real world?

John thought of Raz’s scared hands, of his covering clothes, his brash nature that spoke of so much insecurity.

How many kids had been taken advantage of because of their ignorance?

A touch on his shoulder made John turn his head to study Raz out of the corner of his eye. Raz’s face was shadowed. “I, I wanted to jo- join the Queen’s Navy,” Raz said haltingly. “I wanted to be a sailor.”

“You still can, you know,” John told him gently. “You’re young enough to go back to school. Naval schools exist abundant enough.”

“But I’m not-” Raz winced. “I can’t give orders like Sherlock. I’m not a-”

“You’re a sub,” John said for the teen. “So am I. Didn’t stop me from invading Afghanistan.”

“You?” Raz showed his surprise clearly. “But you’re not army!”

“I was,” John said. “Until I got shot and was discharged. I was in the army for three years, Raz.”

“Oh,” Raz’s steps slowed. John matched them easily. “You think… you think I can?”

“If you work hard for it,” John nodded. “I’m not saying it won’t be tough. But it’s something to work for. Something you can achieve if you try.” He let out a breath. “It’s worth it. No matter the hardships, it is worth it.”

Raz swallowed audibly. “Okay,” he said after a moment’s pause.

John smiled. “Go,” he jerked his head. “Find your place in the Navy, Raz.”

Raz’s hand came briefly to clasp John’s shoulder. “Good luck, with the case and all.”

“We’ll be fine,” John told him. “Goodbye Raz.”

“Goodbye,” Raz said. “And, um, you know I should say-”

“You’re welcome,” John waved him off. “Go.”

Raz went.

Ten minutes later, John found a wall covered in the yellow cipher and he took a picture with his phone before running off to find his Dom.

~.~.~.~

“Sherlock,” John planted his feet to stop the spinning and scowled. “I don’t need to remember. I took a picture.” He showed his phone to the erratic Dom.

“Oh,” Sherlock had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “It must be a code, John,” he murmured as he stared at the image.

“Then we need to crack it,” John nodded. “How?”

“Soo Lin Yao,” Sherlock said. “She’s the key.”

What a pun, John thought. “The museum again, then?”

Sherlock nodded and they headed back to the main street to get a cab. They had just put on seatbelts when Sherlock titled his head and looked John in the eyes. “Raz came to tell me goodbye before you found me.”

“Did he?” John supposed the teen couldn’t leave without seeing the man he admired one last time.

“Explain,” it was an order.

John turned to look out the window. “He’s off to join the Navy,” he said. “They’ll take care of him there, best they can.”

“The Army didn’t take care of you,” Sherlock said and there was too much anger in his tone for John not to whip his head around and face his Dom fully.

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said. “Had I not,” his breath caught, “had circumstances been different than I would have stayed in service. I enjoyed it, I learned a lot about myself during it, and I think it’s a much more stable life than Raz has now.”

“They let you go when you were no longer of use to them,” Sherlock growled.

John raised an eyebrow. “They did,” he agreed. And it did still hurt, he thought. “But can you say you haven’t done the same?”

Sherlock jerked back as if hit. “John.”

“Listen to me,” John said, cursing his slip of the tongue. “I am a grown man, I survived, didn’t I? I couldn’t help them anymore, so they let me go. It was simple. But I don’t regret it.”

Sherlock’s eyes were dark. “You-”

“Raz will be fine, Sherlock,” John said, not wanting to continue this into the argument that it seemed likely to become. “I know you’re protective of him, but he will grow into himself given the proper setting.”

Sherlock closed his eyes to half-mast and nodded slowly. “I believe you,” he said finally.

John sighed. “Thank you.”

~.~.~.~

John sat next to Sherlock. Both of them were listening to Soo Lin’s story and both were horrified by it. A young 15-year-old sub and her brother, Ji Ju, forced to smuggle for the bosses to survive the streets of China.

“A book?” Sherlock asked as Soo Lin began to explain the numbers of the cipher and the book that the code came from. “What book?”

Just then the lights shut off and they were bathed in darkness. “Ji Ju,” Soo Lin murmured in fright. “He has found me.”

Sherlock jumped up and ran for the main section of the museum. “Take care of her,” he shot over his shoulder. “We need her, John.”

“Sherlock!” John called out and cursed as he lost sight of his Dom. He turned to Soo Lin. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her by the arm and manhandling her towards the small office in the back. He closed the door with a distinctive thud and locked it.

Soo Lin crouched under the desk, but John stayed on top, looking at the door. In the distance, he heard gunshots and his hands clenched. He glanced in Soo Lin’s direction. His Dom needed him, he thought. He needed to see if Sherlock was okay.

“I have to go help him,” John said as he opened the office up again. “Bolt the door behind me.”

With that, John ran off to find his Dom. He knew he should stay with Soo Lin, but he was too worried about Sherlock to give it much thought. He heard gunshots again and once more shouted “Sherlock!” but his Dom wasn’t listening.

John followed the shots until he saw Sherlock behind the centerpiece in the foyer and he dived next to him. “Sherlock, you okay?”

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, instead he focused on the gunman, on Ji Ju. John reached a hesitant hand to touch his Dom.

Finally, Sherlock turned his attention to him and he scowled. “I’m fine, John, go! Don’t leave her alone.”

“But-“ John began.

“No,” Sherlock told him firmly. “That’s an order, John. Go now.”

“You don’t even have a weapon!” John snapped.

“Neither do you,” Sherlock glared. John reeled. He’d never seen that look directed at him. “I gave you an order, John, don’t make me angrier than I already am.”

John almost argued more, but thought better of it. If Sherlock said he was fine, than as his sub, John was entitled to trust him. A part of him whispered that he should have trusted him in the first place. With only a small glance to his Dom, John ran back the direction he’d come.

It was almost too late.

When John got back to the office, he found Ji Ju picking the lock of the office door. With a shout he ran towards him just as the masked man finally got the door open. Ji Ju turned, gun raised, and John had to duck behind a sculpture to avoid being shot.

When he surfaced again, Ji Ju was facing away from him. Silent as he could, he crept around the table.

And then he heard a click and John jumped, taking in the pale face of Soo Lin, the sound of the single shot, and the roughness of the man’s clothes as all three fell to the floor at once.

John felt Ji Ju struggle under him and he growled. His mind was reeling, Soo Lin had been shot. He’d failed. Despair wailed up at the loss of a young girl in the prime of her life. Lost at the hand of her own brother.

A primal yell came from deep within John and he bashed Ji Ju’s head against the floor, forcing himself to retreat before he could inflict more damage on the unconscious man. He rolled off of him and stumbled over to Soo Lin just as Sherlock arrived at the scene.

“John,” Sherlock said softly.

John checked for a pulse and nearly cried in relief. “She’s alive, Sherlock. She’s still alive.”

~.~.~.~

John sat in the hospital waiting room as Sherlock talked to the doctor. Dimmock was on his way with a protection squad for Soo Lin. She was in surgery to get the bullet out of her arm. John’s interference had saved her life.

It was the lack of John’s interference that had gotten her shot in the first place.

“Come,” Sherlock said. “We’re going home.”

John stood and followed his Dom blindly.

“You disobeyed me,” Sherlock said as they walked in the cold night air. “Why?”

“I didn’t mean to,” John told him, staring down at his feet. “I told her to lock the door.”

“The door Ji Ju obviously had no trouble opening,” Sherlock pointed out.

John clenched his fist. “I couldn’t be sure that-”

“Don’t lie,” Sherlock hissed. “The man broke into two locked flats and killed the men inside without any hesitation. You think he would hesitate just because it was his own sister?”

“I don’t know,” John blinked harshly against the streetlights that threatened to blind him.

Sherlock didn’t give an inch. “It’s more than that, John. You argued with me. You hesitated to go back to her.”

“I know,” John’s chin dropped.

“Did you think I cared so little about her? She is important to this case,” Sherlock stopped suddenly. John knew he was reliving their earlier conversation about Raz. “She has many years of her life left to live. Even if I had all I needed, I would still have you save her over a misguided attempt to help me.”

It hadn’t seemed misguided at the time, John thought but he knew he couldn’t argue anymore. “I screwed up, I get that.”

John stopped as he realized Sherlock had also. Sherlock’s hand came to pull his chin up and meet their eyes. “You need to trust me to take care of myself, John.”

John nearly flinched at the emotions rolling in his Dom’s eyes. Anger, he thought, disappointment. Fear.

“She’ll be okay,” John said, as if to himself.

“If she survives through the night,” Sherlock corrected. “I need to wrap up this case. I need her to do that.”

It was the use of ‘I’ that tore at John most. Ever since that first case when Sherlock had collared him, it had always been ‘their’ cases.

“You could have figured it out without her,” John bit out before he could stop himself. His own embarrassment at his mistake was suddenly overturned by his shame at his words.

Sherlock’s hand came up slowly, giving John enough warning to see it before it came to backhand him across the face. John clutched his chin, staring at Sherlock stunned.

“That was inappropriate and you know it,” Sherlock told him harshly. “As soon as Dimmock closes the case, I will punish you. Do you understand, John?”

John dropped his gaze and nodded. Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his bruised cheek and John quickly murmured, “I understand.”

Sherlock let go. “Good.”

And then he walked away, stride quick and furious.

John couldn’t think of a single reason why it shouldn’t be.


	6. Chapter 6

When John awoke, Sherlock was already gone. The note besides his bed said that Soo Lin had awoken and John was to stay in the flat.

A full night’s rest was enough for John to be able to think clearly on the actions of the night before. Without a doubt, he should have listened to his Dom in the first place, but part of him was stung by the backhand he’d received. He’d deserved it, he knew he’d deserved, and yet since when did Sherlock care so much for a stranger?

 _Since that stranger is vital to the case_ , John’s mind reminded him. John grimaced.

“Dammit,” John murmured. He wanted to know if Soo Lin was all right. Soldier though he may be, he was also a doctor and he did care about the lives of innocents.

Cared more than he’d let on last night at least.

John stood abruptly and walked out to the living room. He was vibrating with anger and irritation, but he would not make things worse for himself and leave the flat.

_“I will punish you, John.”_

John’s fists curled as he took a couple steadying breaths. Shaking his head, he went over to the coat closet and grabbed a couple of weights from the corner.

Soon, John had lost himself in the steadiness of his usual workout routine. If he could, he would have jogged before setting about to the pushups and situps. Instead he had to settle for running in small circles around the kitchen table and doing squats against the wall.

It was nearly noon by the time John had worked out his more pressing emotions and he went to take a shower with a knot between his shoulder blades and an only slightly less heavy heart.

Then he settled down on his favorite chair with a warm cuppa and waited. He didn’t have to wait long before the distinctive sound of the door opening broke him from his mindless sipping and he set down the tea. Looking up to see Sherlock standing at the doorway, he bit his lip and set his shoulders.

“Sir,” he began slowly. “I want to apologize for my behavior last night.”

Sherlock said nothing for a long moment, and then he turned his head away. “Soo Lin is alive and recovering. She was able to explain the cypher to myself and Inspector Dimmock this morning.”

John felt a wave of relief go through him and he nodded weakly. Then curiosity overtook him and he gazed at his Dom. “The cypher?”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and his eyes turned back to John before he explained about the London A-Z code. When he’d finished John was gaping slightly. “That’s brilliant,” he said. “Genius. Wait, but does that mean the case is done?”

“Dimmock is contacting some national authorities to deal with as much of the gang throughout the country as possible before the cypher changes. As for Ji Ju, well…”

John caught the flyer that Sherlock threw at him. It advertised a circus playing for one night only and suddenly he understood. “Tonight?”

“Tonight,” Sherlock agreed.

John set the flyer down and got up finally from his chair. He thought perhaps now his knees would hold him. Slowly he walked over to where his Dom stood still. “Welcome home,” he said a bit belatedly.

Sherlock had an unreadable expression on his face. One gloved hand came up to stroke John’s cheek in the spot where the same hand had previously struck.

John closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, reveling in the simple gentleness of it. The knot in the small of his back unwound bit by bit under that repetitive motion until he was pliantly standing, being supported only by his Dom’s body and the doorframe.

When Sherlock maneuvered them both to sit on the couch, John went without question. He wondered briefly why he was acting this way.

But of course, he knew the reason why. The biological imperative that made him submissive was that same quirk of genetics that made him crave touch and affection. Crave Sherlock’s, especially in the face of his behavior and his Dom’s disapproval.

“Better now?” Sherlock asked with just a bit of amusement in his tone.

John resisted the urge to bite him on the shoulder and instead nodded. He straightened, keeping his side in contact with Sherlock but no longer curled up against him. “Tea?”

“Later,” Sherlock’s hand grasped John’s wrist. John turned to him. “Tell me what you’re thinking, John.”

“You don’t know?” John asked in honest surprise.

Sherlock’s grip tightened. “I know your actions, John, but thoughts can be much more difficult.”

John hesitated for a moment, not because he didn’t want to answer but because he didn’t know how. “I’m,” he licked his lips, “disappointed.”

“Disappointed?”

“In myself,” John took in a deep breath and faced Sherlock fully. “About what I said.” Sherlock’s thumb was rubbing circles on John’s wrist now and it calmed him. “But I’m worried.”

“You’ve never been punished before,” Sherlock murmured.

John hadn’t. He’d never been one to disobey, at home, at school, or in the army. Never once had his superiors or even his mentor had any trouble with him, at least until the end of his time with both parties. He’d made sure of that.

When had he let his guard down? Sherlock affected him so much and apparently those emotions he kept inside him, those words that hadn’t been said, could cloud his judgment.

But he couldn’t stop loving Sherlock. Not now.

“Tonight, after we arrest the circus,” Sherlock told him. “I’m not going to let this go.”

“I know you’re not,” John sighed. “I know.”

He wished he knew what to expect.

~.~.~.~

“Every anonymous auction matches a time when either Van Coon or Lukis were in China,” John remarked as he and Sherlock stood at the computer.

“Jade Pin, nine million pounds,” Sherlock said as he translated the long message that had been at the train tracks. “This is it, John, this is what one of them stole.”

“What hairpin costs nine million pounds?” John asked with raised eyebrows.

“Depends on who owned it,” Sherlock told him.

John mulled this over for a moment. “Huh.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, reading whatever was on the screen in seconds then texting back. “Dimmock is prepared to raid the circus before the show.”

“Makes sense, just in case,” John nodded. “It would hardly do to risk the lives of all those who are just spectating.”

Sherlock frowned. “I suppose.”

“Come on,” John brushed his hand along Sherlock’s arm. “Dinner’s ready.”

Sherlock followed him readily into the kitchen. “You have a shift at the surgery tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question.

“I called and rescheduled, double shift the next day,” John told him. “I figured it would be easier that way.” He didn’t want to think about Sarah’s worried voice or suspicious questions.

He didn’t want to think about Sarah right now at all. Things had been awkward since her attempt to take him home.

“John,” Sherlock said slowly. “You’re uncomfortable with your work?”

John realized he was gripping his fork a bit tightly and loosened his fingers. “Not with the work,” he said as he cursed himself. He hadn’t wanted to get Sarah in trouble with his Dom.

“With a coworker? No, with your boss,” Sherlock sighed. “Tell me.”

“She just,” John shook his head. “I took care of it, sir, it’s not a problem.”

“She wants you,” Sherlock frowned.

“I told her I wasn’t interested,” John said quickly. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue. “When was this? Recently, yes?”

“Two days ago,” John told him.

Sherlock sighed. “And you didn’t tell me immediately?”

John flushed. “I didn’t want her to, well, I mean she was just being nice.”

“John,” Sherlock stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” John muttered. More disapproval? How much could he screw up in such a short period of time?

“Why didn’t you inform me?” Sherlock demanded much more forcefully.

John didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.

“Where did I go wrong,” Sherlock murmured as if to himself, “where you can’t trust me not to act irrationally in the face of unwanted interest. Did I kill Seb?”

“You know him, he was your friend,” John pointed out. “The use of ‘Seb’ just proves that.”

Sherlock laced his fingers. “You like her.”

“Not romantically,” John said quickly. “I have no interest in her that way, sir.”

“You don’t think I couldn’t see that?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John bit his lip. “I said that I was sorry…”

Sherlock stood. “Come, it’s time to go.”

~.~.~.~

The circus wasn’t in the best part of town, but it was well lit and looked nice enough from the outside. John and Sherlock walked in the entrance together, looking for the world to see as an endearing couple just come to have a nice date.

Underneath John’s collar, a small radio itched against his skin but he ignored it best he could. At the box office, they had to knock on the glass to get a Chinese attendant to come to the window.

“Yes?” the man asked in an accented voice. John exchanged a glance with Sherlock.

“Holmes,” Sherlock said smoothly.

The man frowned. “The show does not start for another hour.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked, showing open surprise. “You told me it started at six, dear.”

John allowed his eyes to widen. “But, sir, I thought-”

“Obviously you thought incorrectly,” Sherlock crossed his arms.

The man at the counter looked nervously between them. “I am sure it is fine if you wait around outside.”

Sherlock sniffed. “I get cold easily, it’s hardly acceptable to be forced under the wind for an hour.”

The man rubbed the back of his neck. “Or you could wait here.”

Sherlock made a show of looking around before nodding and grabbing John by the crook of his arm, walking him up the stairs. The man made only a token protest, and then groaned and gave up. John allowed himself a small smile as they found themselves in a large room with only a badly drawn half-circle to act as a stage and a curtain to separate from the back room.

“Perfect, we’re in,” Sherlock hissed into the radio. Dimmock gave his acknowledgment.

Together, John and his Dom crept around to the side. Sherlock peeled back the curtain, holding up a hand for John to be silent. John rolled his eyes; he had been army, not Sherlock, but he fell in behind anyways.

Softly, they tread around the back until they were in what looked to be a dressing room. There was a clatter of footsteps and Sherlock ducked behind the rack of clothes but John was too late.

In front of John stood a woman with sunglasses resting atop her head and a red robe half covering a tight black suit.

Shit.

“Mr. Holmes,” the woman greeted after a moment’s stunned silence.

“What?” John took a step back. Behind the rack, Sherlock shared his confused look.

The woman smiled a bit rough around the edges and reached over next to her to a small dresser. From behind cans of hair spray she pulled out a gun.

“Gun,” John said, knowing he sounded simple but needing Dimmock to understand the situation.

“Acute observation, Mr. Holmes,” the woman said as she cocked the gun and pointed it at him.

“I’m not-” John started, but then thought better of it. Behind the woman, two more men had stepped up. “Who are you?”

“I am Shan,” the woman introduced.

At his neck, Dimmock made a frantic sound. John ignored it and hoped the noise didn’t carry. He was confident back up would be there soon, but first he wanted the gun out of his face.

John twitched his fingers, all pent up energy, and then there was a small crash as Sherlock pushed over the rack he was behind. Shan’s hand wavered and John took his chance, ducking down and rolling until he was right next to all three of the supposed circus performers. The one on the left was the first to recover, grabbing down as if to capture John. Surging up, John hit him in the gut with his elbow and threw him against Shan.

“John!” Sherlock said, already running forward. John saw out of the corner of his eye as Ji Ju came from high up, coming down to crash on his Dom.

John shook his head and focused instead on Shan as she began to recover. In the distance, sirens could be heard but no one seemed to be listening.

“You and your companion could not hope to defeat the Black Lotus, Mr. Holmes,” Shan spat, her glasses gone from her head. The remaining Lotus thug picked up a sword from one of the stands.

John reached around him, grabbing anything that could help. His hand came back with a partially shattered chair leg.

The man placed his left foot forward, bringing the sword up in front of him. John raised his chair leg, and then he heard a click and he was ducking to the side just in time to dodge the bullet that whizzed past his shoulder and hit his opponent square in the chest. The man collapsed.

“Freeze!” John heard Dimmock shout as coppers suddenly flooded the area.

Shan was still pointing the gun at him. John felt a momentary sense of déjà vu, then she was being taken down from behind and it was over.

~.~.~.~

They were home, both bruised and exhausted. John made them both tea and they sat together at the table until both cups were empty.

“Sherlock, sir,” John began.

“It has to be tonight, John,” Sherlock sighed. “Despite the circumstances, I will not break my word.”

John swallowed and nodded. “Where do you want me?”

Sherlock stood and walked into the den, sitting on John’s chair. John followed slowly, getting onto his Dom’s lap as Sherlock patted it.

“I do believe you regret what you said,” Sherlock said. “And that you disobeyed me.” His hands were hot as he turned John over to be ass up and deftly drew down his trousers and undergarments.

“I regret that you were disappointed in me,” John said, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. He’d never been turned over a knee before and frankly, it was awkward. Made only worse by it being his chair.

But perhaps that was the point.

There was a bit of pulling and John lifted his hips so that Sherlock could pull his clothes completely off and then too his shirt. John’s bare ass waved in the air for a moment before Sherlock hand steadied him.

Then, without warning, his Dom’s hand came down hard, stinging harshly against his bare skin. Embarrassingly, John felt pleasure course through him and he buried his face down. He was too much of a masochist to be able to control it, even in a punishment setting.

Three more slaps. John’s erection grew and he hoped for a moment that Sherlock wouldn’t notice.

But of course he did.

“I know this arouses you,” Sherlock murmured. “I won’t ever put a chastity belt on you, John, do you know why?”

“No, sir,” John said.

“I need your true reactions,” Sherlock said, which didn't really mean anything. “I need to know what you are feeling, thinking, experiencing. That is my duty, as your Dom. That is what I accepted when I collared you.”

Remarkably, though pleasure still spiked from the red marks on his skin, John’s erection began to wilt.

And he knew why.

“You accepted my collar,” Sherlock reminded him. “Tell me what you accepted, John.”

“I accepted,” John groaned. “Obedience.”

Sherlock hummed. “And?”

“And,” John struggled. He didn’t know what Sherlock wanted. Pain and pleasure swirled together as slaps continued to fall. “And?”

“Trust, John,” Sherlock sighed. “To accept my collar is to trust me.”

“I do!” John told him, but it wasn’t believable. What did Sherlock want? It wasn’t as if they’d know each other very long.

More slaps, all in one spot, concentrated until John was sure he would have trouble sitting tomorrow.

Trust? John loved Sherlock, he could admit that in his head, to Raz. Was that so different from trust.

It was, John thought as he began to go numb around the edges. It was completely different.

The slaps stopped. Then the rubbing started and John buried his face into the chair. It felt good, nice even.

Punishment wasn’t supposed to feel good. John bit his inner lip until a light tap brought his attention back to Dom.

“None of that, John,” Sherlock reprimanded.

“What do you want?” John asked, but Sherlock didn’t answer.

Anxious energy was building in him again. John wanted to get up, to do something. Sherlock’s hand held him down.

Just one hand and John’s body pressed against his legs.

John nearly growled, nearly got up, nearly shouted.

“I ask you to trust me, John,” Sherlock said. “Can you do that?”

John never trusted anyone. Once, he’d trusted his sister, then she’d left him alone in their parents’ house, running away at sixteen to work on her own. He’d trusted his mentor, until that one disastrous night when it all went to hell. He’d trusted his first Dom, the one he’d never told anyone about, until that trust was ripped from him and he vowed to never trust again. Except he had, he’d trusted the army. Until they abandoned him in his time of need. To the torturous hands of a mad man and his companions.

Could he trust again?

“I don’t know,” John answered honestly.

But, by God, did he want to.

“I can try.”

And then Sherlock was pulling him up from his lap and close to his body. “Okay,” his Dom said. “Thank you, John.”

John was surprised to feel tears on his cheeks as he brushed them with Sherlock’s shoulder and arm.

“Come, let’s go to bed,” Sherlock told him.

Soon enough they were settled under the blankets, John lying belly-down as Sherlock continued to stroke up and down his back, fingers ghosting over what John knew must be a bright handprint.

“If you could go back in time,” Sherlock said after a moment, voice deeply soft, “would you still enlist in the army?”

John blinked sleepily. “I would,” he said without thinking. His own answer woke him slightly.

He would, John realized. Despite everything that had happened those last months in Afghanistan, he wouldn’t turn away from the experiences he’d had, the victories he’d won and, yes, even the losses that had struck. Every experience changed him, for the better or the worse.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, and it looked as if it had taken him a lot to admit that.

John twisted in the bed until he was on his side, facing his Dom. “If I hadn’t enlisted in the first place and they hadn’t discharged me, sir, I would never have met you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened and he breathed out quickly, “John.”

John leaned up to kiss him on the chin, and then the lips. Sherlock deepened the kiss and pressed into it, pushing John onto his back. John arched up as he felt the sting of his ass against the sheets and he felt Sherlock’s smirk against his lips.

John gasped aloud as Sherlock broke the kiss to bring his lips down to suck at John’s neck. He reached up to touch his Dom. Sherlock grabbed his hand with one of his own. “None of that, John.”

Putting his hands up on the headboard instead, John resisted the urge to jerk as Sherlock quite suddenly scraped his fingernails down, leaving red slashes in streaks on John’s hairless chest. His mouth breathed down, leaving a trail of searing kisses that ended at the crook of John’s thigh where Sherlock bit down savagely.

John cried out, shaking. “Sir, please,” he begged, arms jerking against the headboard.

“Bring me off, John,” Sherlock commanded. John moved his right hand down and did as asked, pulling up and down as Sherlock continued to leave bits on his chest and neck.

By the time Sherlock came in white spurts that flew across to mark all over John’s body, John had amassed quite the collection of bruises and bite marks.

John brought his fingers up, licking at the cum spread on them. Sherlock, seeing this, stropped rubbing his seed into John’s chest and instead brought his own hand up for John to clean. John did so easily, taking his time on each finger.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened as he shifted forward. John choked out a stutter as Sherlock embedded himself on John’s cock without any preparation. No, he realized, Sherlock had prepared himself. He didn't know when, except that it must have been before his punishment. He'd planned this.

"Stay still,” his Dom told him.

John struggled to do as commanded as Sherlock rocked up and down, riding John like a horse. He banged his head back, closing his eyes. “Sherlock!”

“Soon,” Sherlock groaned. “Soon, yes, now, John!”

John came so hard that he saw white under his eyelids. He collapsed against the mattress, breathing out a breath as Sherlock disentangled their limps and pulled out from his limp cock.

“You are so good for me,” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair as he pulled him close. John was already feeling the edge of sleep, but his smile came upon him anyways.

“Thank you, sir,” he said and pushed back against Sherlock, taking comfort from the warmth the other seemed to radiate.

John fell asleep in his Dom’s embrace. When he awoke the next morning, Sherlock’s arms were still wrapped tightly around him.

~.~.~.~

“Watson and Holmes' residence,” John said as he answered his phone. He’d just finished cleaning out the intestines from the sink that Sherlock said he was done with and the smell made his nose crinkle. Shaking his head, he grabbed some air freshener from the cabinet and sprayed the area down.

“Ah, yes, this is Inspector Dimmock,” the voice on the end said a bit hesitantly.

“Detective Inspector,” John greeted in surprise. “To what do I owe this call?”

“I just thought your Dom might want to know,” Dimmock paused. “It’s Shan.”

“What about her?” John set down the air freshener. He didn’t like the sound of the silence that followed.

Finally, “she’s dead.”

“What?” John leaned back against the counter. “Dead? I thought she was in solitary confinement.”

“She was,” Dimmock agreed. “Clean shot to the forehead, sniper rifle. We don’t know how they got past security but they did. Guards didn’t even find out 'til an hour after the event.”

“Damn,” John cursed. “Okay, okay, thanks for letting me know.”

“Will you…”

“Yes, I’ll inform Sherlock. Don’t worry,” John said. “How’s the rest of the operation going?”

“Fine,” Dimmock’s voice strengthened. “We caught them unawares. It, uh, well it really made my career to be honest.”

“That’s good,” John said. Privately he thought that Dimmock needed a break like this to boost his self-confidence. “Very good.”

“Lestrade-” Dimmock cut himself off.

“Did he congratulate you?” John asked, amused despite himself.

“Uh, yes well,” Dimmock cleared his throat. “He told me that I did well, working with Sherlock and all. Not that-”

“You did,” John interrupted him. “I know my Dom’s not the easiest to handle.”

John could practically hear Dimmock’s blush in his next words. “Thank you, for helping also. Tell Mr. Holmes, too. I really do appreciate it.”

“Of course, we were glad to help. Anytime, really, Sherlock loves a good mystery,” John smiled.

“I’m glad I met you. Both of you,” Dimmock said quietly. “And I think I might take you up on that.”

“Be sure to,” John said. “Have a good day, Detective, and let us know if you find out anymore.”

“I will. Goodbye, Dr. Watson,” Dimmock said.

John hit ‘end’ on his phone and set the cell down. He looked around the empty kitchen, mind replaying his fight with Shan.

Yes, Sherlock did love a good mystery. But John was discovering that he was staring to also.

~.~.~.~

“Can I ask you something, sir?” John said as they made their way to the bank to tell Sebastian the news.

“You know you can ask me anything,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“What is Sebastian’s problem?” John inquired before he could think of a more tactful manner of asking.

Sherlock’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t all in amusement. “Seb,” he sighed, “has some needs that he cannot find met as he is currently.”

“What are you saying?” John frowned. Needs? “He’s a sub?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “Not completely.”

“A Switch?” John shook his head. “That’s accepted enough in society, why not just say so?”

“Problems with his past,” Sherlock shrugged. “A mother who was barely more than a slave in her family home and an abusive Dom of a father. I have little doubt that Seb will continue to hide forever.”

John grimaced and then he thought of something. “Wait, did you top him? In uni?”

Sherlock glanced at him. “Would it bother you?”

“No, yes,” John frowned. “I don’t know. He’s just so…”

“It was a mutually beneficial agreement, but it was not one I allowed to continue long, nor one I would take up again,” Sherlock said. “Worry not.”

“I wasn’t,” John said. And he realized that was the truth.

Sherlock said nothing.

Half an hour later, John stood in front of Sebastian as the man scowled, finishing his signature on the check he owed Sherlock. “He really climbed through the window?”

“Yep,” John said, enjoying this moment of victory, but it didn’t last long. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see all too clearly what he’d missed before. The posturing, a desperate attempt to assure himself that he was dominant. It sickened John.

Sebastian scowled. “I still think you’re having me on,” he sneered.

And there went all of his sympathy. “Just nail up a couple of boards and you’ll be fine.” With that, John brushed past the ridiculous Dom and towards the direction he’d seen Sherlock last go.

When he got near, he heard a scream and rushed the last couple of steps only to find Van Coon’s secretary gasping for breath. “Nine million!” she panted. “Nine million!”

John’s eyes travelled to the jade hairpin clutched in Sherlock’s hands. With a smile, he shook his head. His Dom never ceased to surprise him.

Trust, John thought as they left the bank. He wasn’t sure if he even could do that again. Trust, in many ways, was more potent that love.

But for the smile on Sherlock’s face, he would try.


	7. Chapter 7

John came into their flat to find his Dom shooting holes in the wall. He quickly checked out the window, but no police cars were in sight so he relaxed marginally.

“You know,” John said. “I got a license to keep my gun after the war. I’m pretty sure you don’t have one, sir.”

“You’re pretty sure?” Sherlock parroted, shooting the smiley face on the wall one more time.

“If you did, I bet you’d have a gun of your own,” John said. “Instead of just stealing mine.”

“How did a sub get to keep his gun?” Sherlock asked as John took his weapon and unloaded the clip.

“I suppose they pitied me,” John said. He’d asked himself the same question before. It was rare for subs to even be allowed on the frontlines, but to be able to keep their firearm even when they were discharged… well John supposed that they thought he might need the protection, what with the circumstances of his capture and subsequent torture.

Sherlock lay curled up on the couch, watching him. “I’m bored, John.”

“So you shoot the wall,” John sighed. “You could always come with me to meet your brother.”

“Why would I want to spend any time in Mycroft’s company?” Sherlock asked the ceiling.

John went over to the fridge and muffled a startled curse as he saw the head inside. “Sherlock…”

“Saliva, John,” Sherlock said in explanation. He’d sat up. “Come here.”

John did as asked, kneeling by the couch in front of his Dom. “What can I do to ease your boredom, sir?”

“There are many things I would have you do,” Sherlock murmured. His fingers traced along the side of John’s face and John felt his body shiver at the darkening of his Dom’s eyes.

“Knock knock, dears,” Mrs. Hudson said from their open doorway.

John sighed. He’d told Sherlock early on that he wasn’t an exhibitionist. He wasn’t comfortable being extremely submissive in front of others, and hadn't been in a long while.  “Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he greeted as he stood.

Sherlock frowned. “John-” he began.

“I have to go, Sherlock,” John said. “I’ll be back soon.” He squeezed his Dom’s hands in a promise.

Sherlock watched him go with dark eyes as Mrs. Hudson waved a distracted goodbye.

~.~.~.~

“John Watson,” Mycroft greeted as John stepped into his office.

“Sir,” John greeted politely. He still wasn’t all that comfortable around his Dom’s brother, but he wasn’t going to refuse a call from him. Not when Sherlock was in his antsy bored mood. “Is there something you need from me?”

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and after a moment, John sat down in the proffered one. The Dom’s black eyes bore into him, but after living with Sherlock for the five or so months he had, John had gotten used to being studied in silence.

Mycroft’s lips twitched. “When I first learned of Sherlock’s interest in you, Dr. Watson, I was quite surprised.”

“John, please, sir,” John said to prevent himself from making some other comment. “We are,” he paused, “practically family.”

“John,” Mycroft inclined his head. “Do you wish to know why I was surprised?”

John resisted the urge to sigh aloud. “I suppose it’s because your brother is extraordinary and I’m not?” It wasn’t like he hadn’t know that from the beginning, there was no need for Mycroft to rub it in.

“I suppose that is one interpretation,” Mycroft agreed. “Except, John, I do not believe you give yourself enough credit. It takes an,” he paused, “extraordinary submissive to deal with my brother for the length of time you have. To have seen his anger, to have faced his anger, and to have come out still wearing his collar…”

John found that he was tracing the metal around his neck and jerked his hand away. It had become a bit of a nervous habit, one he had been trying to break. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why indeed,” Mycroft sighed and pushed forward a file. “This a case, one of national security, that I need Sherlock to solve.”

“Am I to guess that he refused you?” John raised his eyebrows.

“He was busy, he said,” Mycroft sniffed. “If you could convince him, John, I would be most appreciative.”

“I can only try,” John told him.

“Ah, but you, I believe, would be the only one to succeed,” Mycroft narrowed his eyes as John stood, thinking their meeting over. “What would you do, John, if you were to see into the depths of Sherlock’s soul.”

John stiffened, and then forced himself to relax. He faced those dark eyes with a steely glare of his own. “I know there are sides to Sherlock that I have not yet discovered, but my duty as his sub is to accept him for all that he is.”

John heard, as he was halfway through the office door, Mycroft murmuring, “I hope you’re right, John Watson. For Sherlock’s sake, if not your own.”

With a stiffness between his shoulders, John ignored the comment.

~.~.~.~

The cab slowed down a block away from 221b Baker Street. “Is there something wrong?” John asked.

“Seems to be an accident,” the cabbie said.

John looked out the window and saw the firetruck speed past. He frowned. “Let me off here, then.”

John paid the cabbie and raced down the street. It was just as he feared, The front of the flat opposite his was blown open, debris scattered everywhere as spectators gaped. John looked up to see that the windows of his own flat had been shattered in.

“You can’t go in there,” one of the officers tried to stop him as John pushed his way past the crowd.

“That’s my flat,” John protested, yanking his arm out of the officer’s grasp.

“You could get hurt,” the officer said, eyes tracing John’s collar.

John hated his dynamic, in that moment. “My Dom’s in there,” he seethed and stormed past the man.

The officer seemed to get it, luckily, and he waylaid the rest of the crew as John let himself into the flat. He raced up the stairs two at a time, stopping at the entrance to his and Sherlock’s living room. “Sherlock!”

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock said calmly, walking into the room from the direction of the kitchen.

John felt his shoulders sag as met his Dom, hands grasping at Sherlock’s shirt. “You’re okay?” it was only partially a question.

“I am fine,” Sherlock told him, one hand hot on his back. “Gas leak, apparently.”

“Thank God,” John murmured, trying to calm his beating heart as he reached up and gave Sherlock a kiss.

Sherlock returned it, slowly, and John let himself sag a bit against his Dom’s deceptively strong chest.

Sherlock’s hand moved down from his back to his arse, squeezing in what might be a warning. John pulled back, confused, to see Sherlock’s hazel-green eyes studying him. “Why did you go see my brother?”

“Why?” John blinked, confused at the sudden change of topic. “Because he asked. You said it was fine.”

“Fine, yes,” Sherlock frowned. “He mentioned Andrew West, then?”

“The case?” John sighed. “He said it was of national importance, sir.” He gave his Dom a sly look. “And you are bored.”

“I don’t like you seeing Mycroft alone,” Sherlock said instead.

“Is this sibling rivalry?” John rolled his eyes. “I asked if you wanted to come and you refused.” He wondered if that meant Sherlock had expected him to stay instead.

Sherlock’s left hand was gripping John’s arm, hard enough to bruise. “He didn’t try-”

“Trust,” John said. “If not your own brother, than me. Mycroft knows better than to try anything. I am hardly the kind of submissive personality to kneel down to anyone who asks, sir.” His tone was a bit too biting, but they’d had the ‘trust’ argument more times than once and, as John had said, it went both ways.

Sherlock pursed his lips for just a moment, and then let out a sigh. “Very well. This case then?”

“You’ll do it?” John brightened.

“You want me to?” Sherlock closed his eyes to half-mast.

“Well, yes,” John said.

Sherlock’s lips twitched and John knew he was planning something. “Then you’ll have to convince me.”

John’s eyebrows rose, but his lips parted as he imagined just how he could do that. “I suppose I will,” he said mildly, and dropped down to his knees, placing his hands on Sherlock’s clothed thighs and feeling the muscles flex underneath his fingers.

~.~.~.~

John’s throat ached beautifully and Sherlock had agreed to solve the case of the missile defense system, but of course Lestrade had to call. Not that John really minded, he thought as they got into the cab on the way to Scotland Yard. He knew his Dom could solve more than one case at once.

“You typed up  _A Study in Pink_ ,” Sherlock said as the cab drove down the street.

“I did,” John nodded. “I’m halfway done with  _The Blind Banker_.”

Sherlock sighed. “My personal blogger, are you?”

“I’m whatever you want me to be, sir,” John said truthfully. “I won’t blog about you if you don’t want me to.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment and John forced himself to shift. “It’s fine,” he said finally. “Certainly flattering, for the most part.”

John smiled. He knew what his Dom was referring to. “You said you didn’t know that the Earth went around the Sun, I didn’t lie.”

“It was hardly pertinent information, John,” Sherlock huffed. “I deleted it.”

“So you said,” John resisted the urge to chuckle.

“Your trainer fell short on his job, I think,” Sherlock murmured. “You are awfully insolent.”

John tried not to stiffen, but he knew he failed. Sherlock frowned and he ducked his head. “Do you mind, sir?”

“I would not have you change, John,” Sherlock said. “Come here.”

John unbuckled his seatbelt and slid over onto Sherlock’s lap. “Yes, sir?”

“There is something that you haven’t mentioned. Something to do with your training,” Sherlock observed as he pulled John in closer.

John placed his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, shifting to allow his legs to slide around Sherlock’s hips. The cabbie in front was surely used to liaisons in his backseat, but that didn’t make John any less uncomfortable.

“What did he do?” Sherlock asked and there was no backing down from the order in his question.

John’s shoulders shook, briefly. “Some of his friends came over one night,” John said and he knew that was all Sherlock needed to piece together the story.

“Humiliation,” Sherlock mused. “He brought you down and kept you there in front of his company.” His Dom’s hand were soft on his ribs as he began to spread them over John’s torso. “That is abuse.”

“One of the guests put an end to it,” John said. “He called my parents and had my trainer charged.”

“What was his punishment?” Sherlock asked.

“Thirty lashes,” John said. “I was told to watch.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. John gripped his shoulders and moved his head so that his face was now pressed against his Dom’s neck. He remembered that night, remembered the hands that came to touch him, pull at him from all directions. Stranger that saw him on display and he was so vulnerable, back bleeding on the floor, bruises cover his arms and legs.

“I will never have you submit in front of another, John,” Sherlock said finally. “If I ever ask, for any reason, you will not be punished should you refuse. Do you understand?”

John felt something come loose inside him and he relaxed as Sherlock stroked his back soothingly. “Yes, sir, Sherlock. Thank you.” He lifted his face.

Sherlock sucked at his bottom lip and then pulled away. “Back to your seat, we have arrived.”

John did as told, easy in his compliance with the order. The cab came to a stop and Sherlock paid in cash before getting out. John followed as they walked into Scotland Yard and up to Lestrade’s division.

Not half an hour later, John stared at the phone in Sherlock’s hands and the picture that had appeared on it. “A game?”

“A great game,” Sherlock said with a sort of maniacal glee in his eyes as he tore out of the office. “I’ve seen this place before. Come, John.”

John shared a look with Lestrade and they both trailed after the world’s only consulting detective.

~.~.~.~

John watched Sherlock identifying Carl Powers’ shoes. He felt the same thrill of excitement he always got on a case, but there was a woman with a bomb strapped to her and there was no time to fool around.

Molly came in and John smiled at her. He’d made sure to become amicable with the poor sub ever since Sherlock had asked him to get his riding crop the very first time they’d met. Behind her, a rather plain-looking man walked into the lab.

“Jim,” Molly said. “Um, Jim this is Sherlock Holmes and his Sub, John Watson. Jim works in IT upstairs. It’s how we met, office roommates.”

John looked at Sherlock, but he wasn’t paying much attention. “Hello,” he greeted for the both of them.

Jim spared him a cursory glance. “So you’re Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “I’ve heard all about you. Are you working on one of your cases?”

Something pinged in John’s gut, but he didn’t really know what. Sherlock looked at Jim now, running his eyes in a sweep over the man’s whole body. “Hmm,” he shook his head.

Jim’s eyes were dark, John noticed. He seemed familiar, but John couldn’t place his face. There was something about the way he moved though. It was…

Jim knocked over one of the tins, the metal clanking against the ground so loudly that it broke John both of his thoughts and of his concentration. He jerked.

“Sorry!” Jim said, replacing the tin. “So sorry. I think I’ll just leave, um,” he turned to Molly. “See you at the Fox around sixish?”

“Sure, yeah,” Molly smiled and watched as Jim walked out the door.

“Bye,” Jim said, letting one last lingering glance lay on Sherlock.

John clenched his fists, but said nothing. Jim’s eyes rolled over to him and grew even darker.

“Sub,” Sherlock said as soon as the man had left. John winced. The man wasn’t a very alpha personality, sure, but he and Molly were obviously dating and Molly certainly wasn’t the Dom in the relationship.

“I’m sorry?” Molly blinked.

Sherlock glanced at her and John frowned. “Your dominant-boyfriend is a sub,” he sighed. “Really, it was quite obvious.”

“He’s-” Molly began.

“A v-neck shirt that doesn’t quite cover up the scars of an old chain collar pinching, faint red marks around the wrists and ankles, visible from the pants a inch too short showing trouble finding good employment despite having the skills to work at IT upstairs. That and the undeniable evidence of the fact that he just left his number under this tin.” Sherlock lifted up the number card with a flick of his wrists and a raised eyebrow.

“Sherlock,” John warned, placing a hand on his Dom’s arm. “Perhaps he’s a Switch, Molly.”

“But he,” Molly bit at her bottom lip, looking at the number in Sherlock’s hand.

“Have you two talked about exclusivity?” John asked her kindly.

“No,” Molly shook her head, and then visibly bolstered herself. “Of course. I’ll talk to him tonight, get that straightened out, shall I?”

“You do that,” John nodded.

“Thanks, John,” Molly said as she left, presumably back to wherever it was she worked in the building when she wasn’t being Sherlock’s lackey. And really, John needed to talk to his Dom about that.

“He’s not,” Sherlock said. “He’s a sub.”

“Let her figure that out for herself,” John said. “It’ll only hurt more to hear it said so callously from you.”

“Why?” Sherlock tilted his head and turned into John’s space.

John settled against his Dom’s chest, standing between his spread knees as Sherlock leaned against the back of his chair. “Because she admires you, surely you can see that, sir?”

Sherlock stretched up and nipped at John’s ear. John went from passive to melting in a moment. “We haven’t talked about exclusivity, John.”

“I wear your collar, sir,” John said as Sherlock began to twist his earlobe with his teeth. “I will only want you.”

Whether or not Sherlock would only want John was a different question. One that he had been trying to avoid, if he was to be honest.

Of course, Sherlock read that on his face immediately. “You are all I need, and all I desire,” he said, pulling back from John’s ear to stare him in the eyes, a hand on his neck.

John leaned into the hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said once he was sure his voice wouldn’t break.

Sherlock chuckled softly.

~.~.~.~

The Dom at the rental agency had been to Columbia, Sherlock had said. John watched as the coppers rushed to go disable the explosives on the man who was being the voice of their bomber this time.

“You’ve been in debt before,” Sherlock stated as they arrived at their flat.

“I had a bit of a gambling problem in my youth,” John admitted. “The army straightened me out on that.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock glanced at him and sat down heavily, staring at the pink phone as if just that would make the next message come faster.

“Do you even care?” John asked. “About whatever poor sod it is being strapped up with the bomb right now?”

Sherlock turned his full attention to him, but John held his gaze. “I’m a sadist, John.”

“You aren’t a sociopath,” John argued.

“Will caring about them help?” Sherlock asked darkly.

John turned away. “No.”

“Then I will continue to not make that mistake,” Sherlock told him.

John closed his eyes slowly. “And if it were me, Sherlock? What then?”

Sherlock snapped roughly and John sank to the ground into a graceless kneel. “Why are you asking me this, John?”

John bowed his head, studying the floor. “The army used to say that I cared too much about my patients. They attributed it to my dynamic, but I’m not so sure.”

Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his head. “You are one of the most pure people I know,” he said. “To have killed, to have been through all you have, to be what you are, and yet to still feel as much as you do…”

“You told me not to change,” John pointed out dryly.

“So I did,” Sherlock sighed. “This game being played… it is for me, John. And I don’t know what it is that my opponent is seeking.”

“You have an idea as to who it is?” John half-asked.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock’s fingers ran through John’s hair. John crawled closer to Sherlock’s chair, making it easier on his Dom, and settled into a kneel that he could stay in for as long as was needed without hurting his leg.

“I though you said the phone’s address was written by a female,” John said. “Is Moriarty a girl, then?”

“A female Dom,” Sherlock reminded him. “Perhaps.” Except that his tone said that wasn’t quite right.

John raised his head slightly, but the fingers in his hair didn’t stop their stroking. “How can I please you, sir?”

They met eyes and Sherlock smiled a soft little twitching of lips that John had found only ever directed at him. It was worth more than any of the words that had yet to be said. “Just like this, John.”

John swallowed dryly in understanding and he rested his cheek on Sherlock’s knee, closing his eyes and focusing only on the hand on his head. He knew Sherlock would call him back up when he was needed and so he let himself fall easily into a world where only him and his Dom existed. Where there wasn’t a bomb in sight, no megalomaniac on the loose, and nothing to worry about but when the next gentle stroke in his hair would come.

~.~.~.~

The next clue hadn’t come and finally Sherlock drew John back to himself, putting a coat on him and taking him to a diner across the block for some lunch.

The phone beeped finally as they were finishing their food and Sherlock frowned. “This may be a problem. This could be any number of person!”

John glanced at the picture. “Lucky for you, I’m unemployed at the moment.”

“What?” Sherlock glanced at him.

“Which means I watch too much telly with Mrs. Hudson,” John continued. He walked over to the telly in the corner and turned it on, switching to the channel he knew that Connie Prince’s show was on. Like he’d expected, they were running the story of her mysterious death from a rusty nail and the subsequent tetanus poisoning.

Sherlock was studying the screen with interest as John sat back in the table. “Connie Prince,” he said.

“Makeover show, very popular,” John explained.

Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts for a moment, then he turned his steady gaze upon John. “You quit the surgery a month ago,” he said.

“I told you at the time,” John reminded him.

“You never told me why,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Like you don’t know,” John sighed.

“Your boss’ interest,” Sherlock nodded.

Sarah hadn’t wanted to take no for an answer by the end of John’s time there. She had been convinced that John’s relationship with Sherlock was both amoral and abusive. John had finally snapped, telling her that even if he wasn’t Sherlock’s sub, he would never date someone like Sarah. She was neither sadistic, nor dominant enough to be able to control him in bed.

It had been a bad day all around.

“I figure once this mess is over with, I’ll start looking for another place to work,” John said. “It’s no trouble.”

Sherlock didn’t look very convinced, but he turned back to the subject of Connie Prince’s murder and John was glad to let it go.

~.~.~.~

“It was during his collaring party,” Joe Harrison said. “Usually he keeps a real tight-lip about his job, but he’d had a couple of pints and it all came spilling out.” The man looked down at his hands. “He had the memory stick, was waving in front of my face, like he was taunting me!”

“So you stole it,” Sherlock said.

“He was plastered, it was easy to take if from him, so very easy,” Joe explained almost as if that forgave everything.

John decided in that moment that he held no sympathy for the man who killed his brother-in-law.

“He found out,” Joe continued. “He confronted me and, it was an accident, I swear! I pushed him down the stairs and I was going to call an ambulance, but it was too late.”

John turned his head away, disgusted. “So you decided to hide the body?”

“I didn’t know what to do with it,” Joe confessed. “He was bleeding there, all limp-like.”

“Then you heard the train and you got a brilliant idea,” Sherlock said. “He would have travelled for quite a ways if the track hadn’t changed over and jerked his body off.”

“What would Lucy say?” Joe moaned. “She’d kill me, she’d murder me.”

The woman, though a Dom by nature, had seemed sweet enough, if depressed when John had talked to her. That her sub of a brother murdered the sub she had just collared…

“Do you still have the memory stick?” Sherlock asked.

Joe nodded.

“Fetch if for me,” John’s Dom commanded.

John watched as the sub complied immediately. Jail would be hard for him, John knew. Subs didn’t do well in that situation; they became the bitches of anyone that wanted them, for the most part. John remembered his one night, how scared his cellmates had been. The criminal system may try to put subs with other subs, but it wasn’t behind the bars of their cells where the problems happened.

Of course, John had gotten out when the cops finally cleared up the misunderstanding. Young Samuel, his friendly cellmate, hadn’t. John very much doubted that Joe would, either.

Sherlock took the stick and then looked at John, before turning back to Joe. “You killed your sister’s sub because of your drug debts,” he said slowly.

There was remorse in all the lines of Joe’s body, but he nodded.

Sherlock sighed, glancing once more at John, and fished in his pocket for something. He pulled out a card easily. “Call this number, explain everything as you have told me. It will get you out of jail, Joe, but you will do work, hard work, for the rest of your life.”

Joe took the card with shaking hands, opening his mouth to probably say some sort of thanks, but Sherlock was already leaving. John followed, ignoring the other Sub as he walked down the stairs to the street.

“Who was it?” John asked. “The number?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed. “Which is a pity, I won’t be able to hide the fact that I found the plans here.”

“Why would you hide it?” John asked, aghast.

Sherlock narrowly glanced at him. “I believe that there is a chance Moriarty, or whomever it is playing these games, is interested in these plans. Their game was a way of distracting me from them.”

“Oh,” John frowned. “But you solved this in an hour. Someone who made these games, surely if they wanted the memory stick they would have gotten it much sooner.”

Sherlock stopped and stared at him. “John…”

John blinked. “What?”

“I do believe you’re right,” Sherlock murmured. “Of course, that means, yes. It is to grab my attention, but not for distraction. For interest. Oh, I see.”

“I’m not following,” John admitted. Then he glanced at his watch and winced. “Sherlock, we only have three hours left to find the Connie Prince murderer!”

“No worries, John,” Sherlock said off-handedly. “It is Raoul.”

“What?” John gaped. “You knew?”

“Please, it was elementary,” Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly twelve hours worth of deduction.”

John felt a dreading sensation fill him. “How long have you known?”

“For a number of hours,” Sherlock shrugged. “Don’t you see, we are ahead! The things I have managed to uncover about Moriarty in this time-”

“There is an old woman scared out of her mind with a sniper aimed at her and you could have helped her hours ago!” John actually took a step back. He couldn’t believe, he just couldn’t process what had been going on in his Dom’s mind. Except, he could. Because Sherlock thought in chess and the bombing victims, they were pawns.

“Calm down, John,” Sherlock sighed. “We will go to Lestrade now.”

“You-” John cut himself off, taking a deep breath.

“You’re disappointed in me,” Sherlock titled his head. “Do not make me into a hero, John, there is no such thing and even if there were, I would not be one.”

“No, but you  _are_  my Dom,” John said. “I can’t believe…” he took a deep breath and murmured to himself, “Mycroft warned me, you know.”

Sherlock spun to face John fully. “Mycroft? He, what, told you that I was damaged, that I have a hard time feeling emotions the way normal people do?”

“No,” John felt confused suddenly. “No, he was worried for you, I think. Asked if I would stay with you even if I found out the darker sides to your soul.” Or something to that affect, at least, John added silently.

Sherlock’s face went slack. “Oh.”

John stepped closer. “I would, you know, I will,” he confessed. “Even if there’s a blind, old woman whose heart might give out on her from the stress, I will always stay with you.”

“You are too good for me, John,” Sherlock said, his thumb coming to rub against John’s collar. “I would ask God what I did to deserve you, but-”

“You are an atheist,” John finished with a smile. “I thought you were supposed to have an ego the size of the country?”

“Not even the queen herself deserves you,” Sherlock said seriously.

John shivered as the heady look in Sherlock’s gaze. “I am yours,” he said easily.

The thumb on his collar pressed down, limited his breath slightly. John’s knees went weak and his vision swam with possibilities. “Mine,” Sherlock agreed.

“The woman, sir,” John reminded his Dom. “Later?”

Sherlock stayed pushing against John’s pressure point for another moment, just, John thought, to show that he could, that he was in charge. But then he stepped back. “Come,” he commanded.

John stepped close and let Sherlock wrap his arm around his shoulder as they walked down the road, the train whistling in the distance as somewhere a laser dot wavered on a crying lady with the sweet voice of young man speaking instructions in her ear.


	8. Chapter 8

John gasped in pleasure as Sherlock struck the cane down hard on his ass. The burn spread down to his toes and he curled them against the floor, his arms jerking. He was tied across the bed posts, his chest barely touching the covers.

He was vulnerable to Sherlock ministrations, unable to look at anything but the pillow under his head as his Dom circled him.

John bit at his bottom lip as three quick smacks of Sherlock’s hand came over the fresh welt. “Do you like that, John?” Sherlock asked rhetorically. “Would you like more?”

“Sir,” John moaned.

“Yes or no,” Sherlock smacked again, hard enough to send the contact up through John’s spine.

John’s vision swam, briefly. “Y-yes,” he gasped.

Sherlock hummed, the sound joining with the soft stroke of the cane across his mid back. John let his shoulder’s slump, his mind delving into that deep space where all that mattered was his Dom and his Dom’s desires.

As soon as he’d reached that point, Sherlock struck him with the cane again, ranging from his thighs to his back and down again, the strikes precise and yet seemingly random. John let out a content sound, needy for more of the endorphins flooding his system. His eyes closed of their own accord as his Dom continued to bring him the pain, pleasure, pain.

“Hold it for me, John,” Sherlock murmured, before John even knew he was about to come.

Ah, but how he ached, his cock straining against the bed. “Sir!” John protested.

Sherlock scrapped fingernails across his butt crack in warning. “Hold it.”

John couldn’t say no to a tone like that. “Whatever pleases you, sir,” he said, his words muffled.

“You please me,” Sherlock said. “How tense you get, breath deeply for me.”

John obeyed, the sudden influx of oxygen like a drug to his mind. He reveled in the sensation and breathed again.

“Good,” Sherlock praise and John smiled, but his mouth dropped open again as the cane took both of his thighs in one hit.

Sherlock moved and John strained for a moment to sense where he was going. “None of that,” Sherlock warned.

His Dom always knew, John thought faintly, drawing himself back in that deep space. His right foot twitched and suddenly was free. He frowned for a moment, until he realized it was Sherlock’s doing, his Dom pushing his leg until his knee bent.

“Ahh,” John groaned, his welts stretching as the other leg came loose and joined the previous in a kneel. He stayed where his Dom had put him, arms still bound up, legs apart and chest and face down, his ass high in the air.

One cool finger entered him and John flinched away from his momentarily. A warm hand clasped his hips holding him in place. “Calm, John.”

John settled at the voice of his Dom, giving into the pleasure of the finger inside him as it probed. Another joined it and they weaved together to find that sweet spot.

John knew that his Dom had the exact location of his prostrate in his knowledge bank, but Sherlock teased him, shooting his fingers just shy.

“Sir, please!” John begged. “Please.”

“You’re doing so well,” Sherlock told him. The fingers left and John whimpered softly.

Then those warm hands were stretching John’s cheeks apart and he screamed out against the dual sensation of the welts contracting and the sudden impaling of his Dom’s cock in his body. He breathed in deeply, nearly crying in pleasure as Sherlock’s fingers dug into his skin, his body shaking forward from the force of the cock pounding against his prostrate.

“Come,” Sherlock said, his voice heavy with lust.

John rode through his orgasm with thoughts of his Dom, the blanket of being a collared sub rolling over him as he let the rocking of Sherlock’s thrusts keep his centered in the world.

Sherlock’s seed spilled inside him, warming his insides like the most pleasant of fires. John’s shoulders had collapsed inward, but he hardly noticed, ass still in the air even as Sherlock dismounted the bed and moved around.

John’s eyes popped open as he felt something cool and metal at his hold. “Sherlock?” he asked.

“We have to go see my brother,” Sherlock said by way of an explanation. “You will hold this inside you. Tonight, I will take it out before bed.”

“Yes, sir,” John blushed as the butt plug was pushed all the way in, trapping the semen inside him.

Sherlock came to untie his arms and John sat up, face still red. Sherlock smirked slightly, but it was with care that he kissed John on the forehead and then the lips.

~.~.~.~

“Welcome, sirs,” the host bowed and led them across the darkly lit restaurant to a private backroom. John remembered the first meal he’d ever had with Sherlock and his lips twitched. Trust the Holmes to be more similar than they intended.

Mycroft was sitting already, but he stood when they entered. “Welcome, Sherlock, John.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, herding John to the chair farthest from his brother. John allowed the movement, though it did amuse him. He honestly held no attraction to the other Holmes, still Sherlock would probably always be threatened by his brother in some fashion.

Mycroft’s dark eyes missed nothing, but he to chose not to speak on the possessive air that Sherlock exuded. “Do you have-”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock sighed and fished from his pocket the memory stick. “Take it.”

Mycroft accepted the small device and pocketed it. “You have my thanks.”

Sherlock sniffed and sat. John smiled. “It was no trouble,” he said for them both.

Mycroft inclined his head and Sherlock clasped John’s leg underneath the table. “If you were so inclined as to wonder, Joe has proven useful in his new position.”

“And what position is that?” John asked curiously.

“Pay that no mind,” Mycroft said. “I must ask, however, as to your hesitance to give me this, Sherlock. Surely our,” he paused, “sibling rivalry would not see you to go against the wishes of the crown?”

“Nothing so drastic,” Sherlock said, though his hand tightened. “I had thought that perhaps that whomever it is that is running this game of the city would be interested in it.”

“Ah, yes,” Mycroft frowned. “It is a dangerous game.”

“But I’m sure you have other things to worry about, don’t you brother?” Sherlock said a bit snidely.

“In this circumstance, I am afraid you are correct,” Mycroft sighed. “I trust you will attempt to think of London before your own enjoyment on this one.”

“Do not tempt me,” Sherlock said shortly.

John stared at him, and then at his brother, wondering what was going on. He’d never seen them so openly hostile towards each other.

Mycroft saw his look. “And how was your day, John?” he asked pleasantly.

John glanced once more at Sherlock. “Long,” he said softly. He shifted as he felt the welts of Sherlock’s cane on his seat. The movement pushed the butt plug up higher, pressing deep in him. He bit back a moan.

“I see you have enjoyed my brother’s pleasure,” Mycroft noted.

John felt himself blush and he put a hand over Sherlock’s on his thigh. “That’s enough,” Sherlock said shortly. “Do not upset my sub, Mycroft.”

“I have no intentions to,” Mycroft said. “I apologize if that was the result.”

“It’s fine,” John said. “And your day, sir?”

Mycroft took a sip of his wine and began to recite some base details, half of which John figured were lies.

Sherlock continued to hold his hand tightly under the table.

~.~.~.~

She was dead. The old woman was dead, shot, murdered.

John watched the telly as Raoul was pushed into the cop car. On the black chair besides him, Sherlock rubbed fingers at his chin, aggravated.

“Well obviously I lost that round,” Sherlock growled. “Though technically I did solve the case.” He turned off the telly with a click of the remote.

John frowned. “Any luck on the Carl Power’s Case?”

“All of his former classmates check out clean,” Sherlock drew a single leg up, tapping his fingers.

Twelve people killed in the explosion, John thought. What kind of sick person… no John knew the kind of person that would do this. He was intimately aware of that.

“He’s taking his time,” Sherlock murmured, staring at his phone. “Two more.”

“Sir,” John cleared his throat, standing and coming over. Sherlock looked up at him and then spread his legs slightly so that John could sit comfortably in his lap.

“Yes, John?” he asked, accepting as John entangled their hands together.

“An old woman and twelve other in her building just died,” John murmured. He touched their foreheads. “He can take however long he likes to send this next riddle.”

“She died because he started to describe her,” Sherlock said, breath puffing at John’s lips. “Just once, he put himself in the firing line.”

“What do you mean?” Johns shifted so that he could see Sherlock’s face from a more comfortable distance.

“Well, usually he must stay above it all,” Sherlock explained. “He organizes these things but no one, or few, would ever have direct contact.”

“What, like the Connie Prince murder?” John sighed. “Or leaving the country. People come to him, wanting their crimes fixed up. Like booking a holiday.”

“A consulting criminal,” Sherlock’s eyes lit and John buried his face in his Dom’s shoulder. “John?”

“Just stop, Sherlock,” he mumbled. “Just, let’s wait, okay?”

Sherlock’s warm hands moved slowly over his back and John breathed out against his neck. “As you wish, John.”

John closed his eyes, content as he was until that inevitable ring of the phone.

~.~.~.~

“Have you ever heard of the Golem?” Sherlock asked.

“That’s a myth, isn’t it?” John frowned.

“Czech folklore, yes, but also the name of an assassin. That,” Sherlock pointed to the fingertips bruising on the drowned man’s face, “is his trademark style. He squeezes the life out of his victims.”

“So this is a hit?” Lestrade frowned. “But why?”

“The painting!” Sherlock said again.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Lestrade asked.

“Everything,” Sherlock sighed.

Lestrade shook his head. “I don’t see-”

“You do see, you simply don’t observe,” Sherlock was right up in Lestrade’s face now and neither was backing down.

“Sirs,” John interjected warningly. The two Doms sprung apart, looking just a bit sheepish. “Sherlock, you want to take us through it?”

Sherlock circled the body, taking note of his clothes. “Their too big for him, some sort of standard issue uniform, then. There’s a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.”

“Tub driver?” Lestrade suggested. Sherlock frowned.

“Security guard?” John tried.

“More likely,” Sherlock inclined his head. “Flabby backside, sits often and doesn’t care about his appearance as much. A Dom then and, or, unattached, judging by the callouses on his hands, but the fact he’s been dead for twenty-four hours, both. Now, the muscles in his legs shows that he walks often, so sitting and walking, security guard.” Sherlock smiled. “Watch helps too, shows he did regular night shift.”

“Why regular?” Lestrade asked.

“Button’s are stiff,” Sherlock said. He shook his head. “But there’s something else. The killer must have been interrupted or the body would be stripped clean.”

John blinked. He’d been wondering just that thing.

“There’s some sort of badge that was ripped off,” Sherlock continued. “Suggesting he worked somewhere recognizable. Found these in his trouser pocket,” he held up a wad of paper.

“Tickets?” John frowned.

“Ticket stubs,” Sherlock gave him an approving nod which went straight to John’s groin. “Museum or gallery. I did a check, the Hikman Gallery has reported one of its attendants missing. Tonight, they unveil the lost Vermeer masterpiece.”

“Wait, so the Golem killed this man why?” Lestrade scratched his palm.

“Because he knew something about the painting, something that would stop the owner from getting their thirty million pounds. It must be a fake,” Sherlock concluded.

“Fantastic,” John said. Even now, his Dom continued to amaze him.

Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock beamed.

~.~.~.~

A woman sat at the Waterloo bridge. John recognized her immediately as homeless. “Change, any change,” she said as they approached.

“What for?” Sherlock asked.

“Cup of tea, of course,” the woman smiled.

There was something else behind the words, John thought as Sherlock handed her the fifty and the note he’d written in the taxi.

“What was that?” John asked curiously as they got back in the taxi.

“Investing,” Sherlock answered. “Now we go to the gallery, you got any cash?”

John huffed and nodded. He put on his seatbelt as the cap drove back into traffic. “Why?”

“The homeless network is vital, John,” Sherlock said. “They are too often overlooked, but for the right price they will find any information.”

“I see,” John licked his lips. “Like Raz?”

Sherlock froze minutely. “Yes.”

“I wonder where he is right now, what he’s doing,” John confessed. “I hope that he-”

“At this time, he is none of our concern,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Do you know something?” John asked softly.

Sherlock looked at him with pale eyes. “He has gone back to school,” he murmured after a moment. “However good that will do him.”

Despite the words, John could tell that Sherlock was pleased and he, himself, could not stop the wave of relief that coursed through him. “Good.”

~.~.~.~

“Dammit,” Sherlock cursed and the car picked up the Golem and drove off with speed. “We’ll never find him again.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” John said.

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock turned to him.

“I told you, someone left a message on Alex’s machine,” John said. “A Professor Kanz.”

“Astronomy professor?” Sherlock murmured as they began to race back to the street. “And you said he was an amateur astronomer?”

John hailed a cab as Sherlock consulted his phone for the location of the professor. “Well?”

“We’ll have to check her office, can’t find her home address,” Sherlock said. He told the cab the location of the uni and they took off. “The painting, it has something to do with the night sky.”

The cab stopped and John and Sherlock raced into the building, following the sound of the projection that said that the professor was working late.

They got there in time to see the Golem finish her. John’s stomach dropped as the body dropped down and the lights flickered. “I’ll go around.”

“John,” Sherlock said, but John was already rushing towards the body, to see if he could do anything. He pulled his gun out of his jumper, glad he’d thought to bring it.

The professor was dead, her eyes wide open and bruises forming on her temples. John choked out a breath, and then he heard a scrape of feet on the floor and he raced back down to help his Dom.

“Let him go, or I swear I’ll shoot,” John warned, pointing the gun at the large hitman who held his Dom by the throat. Sherlock’s were saying something, warning him about something.

The Golem’s foot kicked out, dislodging his gun from his hand. John took a step back, but not before the hitman was upon him, startling pressure on his neck and face.

“You will not hurt my sub,” Sherlock growled, tackling the Golem from behind. The hitman dislodged him easily, but it gave John enough time to recover.

He was too strong, John thought. Sherlock gasped and John asked on blind instinct, lunging to wrap his arms around the hitman’s neck.

Sherlock stood shakily, his eyes wild against the flashing lights of the projection video. John tightened his arms, but the Golem bowed forward and he went flying off, landing with a thumb on the ground.

His gun was next to him. John grabbed it, no thought in his mind but helping his Dom against an opponent nearly too strong for even the both of them. He turned and aimed.

Sherlock and the man were struggling against each other. “Sherlock, down!” John screamed and fired.

Sherlock ducked, rolling away as John continued to discharge into the Golem’s chest. The large man jerked, stumbling. His arms swung as if he wanted to keep attacking.

Then he fell forward with a thud and lay still.

“John,” Sherlock said as John finally lowered the gun, legs unsteady.

John buried himself in his Dom’s embrace. “You okay?”

“Are you okay?” Sherlock countered. “You just killed one of the most renowned assassins in the world.”

“Can’t be any worse than the cabbie from our first case, can it?” John asked, a bit shakily.

Sherlock laughed softly and tightened his arms.

~.~.~.~

“Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you,” Sherlock turned to the museum curator. “This whole case has a distinct Czech feel. Is that what this leads up to?”

John frowned as he sat back, watching Lestrade and Sherlock interrogate the woman. At least the child had been found and the bomb taken off, the kid’s poor parents threatening to sue the school where the boy had gone missing from.

The woman shook her head, a strong Dom, but intimidated. She barely paid John any mind, but he didn’t mind. It gave him leave to study her openly.

“What are we looking at, Inspector?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade sighed as if he didn’t want to deal with the paperwork involved. John didn’t blamed him. “Well, criminal conspiracy, fraud, the murder of the old woman and the other twelve-”

“I don’t know about that, any of that, please believe me!” the woman broke immediately.

Not so strong, John reassessed. Scared.

Sherlock gave a small nod in Lestrade’s direction which John knew meant that she was telling to the truth.

“I just wanted my share,” she continued. “The thirty million.”

What people do for money sometimes sickened John. But, he told himself, better for money than for pleasure.

At least, he thought this woman would regret the deaths she’d inadvertently caused. Others… John suddenly saw blood in streaks on the floor and he closed his eyes, pushing back bile. This last case had brought past memories too close to home.

A phone began ringing in the background, but they all ignored it.

“I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius,” the curator said. “His brush work, it could fool anyone.”

Sherlock hummed and the woman scowled. “Well, nearly anyone.”

John frowned, meeting Sherlock’s eyes to remind him that it nearly had fooled him. There had been two seconds on the clock when he’d figured out about the supernova. The child had nearly been killed, and what then? How could anyone of them had lived with that?

The woman was talking again. Someone had helped her, blown it all up. It was an apt metaphor, John thought.

“Whispers,” she said.

“And did those whispers have a name,” Sherlock was sitting up, staring at her with intent eyes.

John didn’t like the look in them. It was too similar…

The woman nodded slowly, shakily. “Moriarty.”

Sherlock turned away, hands coming up in their usual position. Behind then, John saw a smile.

It was a confirmation of what they’d already suspected, John thought. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

~.~.~.~

“You’re upset,” Sherlock noted as they finished off their tea.

John had hoped the daily ritual would calm him, but he couldn’t help but hear the time ticking down in his head, how close they’d been. “We were almost too late.”

“The case has been solved,” Sherlock sighed. “One left,” his eyes glinted. “The grand finale.”

“Do you even care that the victims might be traumatized because of this game that you’re playing?” John gaped.

Sherlock glanced at him. “The ones who listened to me are safe,” he said. “If this is about the old woman…”

“It’s not,” John cut in. “Not just about her.”

“If she hadn’t said anything, she would still be alive. Just like the last one,” Sherlock said. “I have succeeded, I have beaten him thus far.”

“It was a child!” John growled. “A young boy and we nearly didn’t solve the case because, what, you deleted basic knowledge? You let your ego get ahead of you?”

“That’s not,” Sherlock frowned. “We had this conversation, John, I am not a hero.”

“I don’t need you to be a hero,” John said, for himself as much as for his Dom. “But can’t I ask that you even think about caring for others? I know you’re capable, you collared me.”

“You’re different, John,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Your interesting, a mystery I haven’t solved yet.”

John’s breath caught, but it wasn’t in pleasure. A mystery? He was a mystery to his Dom, something yet to be solved? “Sorry?”

Sherlock leaned back down on the sofa. “You are the first to fascinate me so,” he murmured. “You are special, John.”

“I am special,” John repeated. “A mystery.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock had that look on his face, the one that said he didn’t know what silly human emotions were affecting John now.

John used to hate that look. Now he had the sneaking suspicion that it was that confusion that had attracted Sherlock to him in the first place. “What will happen when you figure out that mystery, Sherlock? When I’m boring again?”

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes darkened.

But John wasn’t done. “Or what if someone else comes along, someone who’s more mysterious, more interesting?”

Sherlock stood. “Why are you-”

“I was twenty when I fell in love for the first time,” John said, because it needed to be said. Because it should have been said a long time ago. “His name was Sebastian Moran and he was a sadist to a degree I had not yet felt.”

There was no emotion on Sherlock’s face. “You should not-”

“Don’t interrupt me,” John snapped. “Sit down and listen to me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a low noise, but he sat anyways, crossing his legs and clenching his hands together, showing his displeasure but willing to hear John’s story.

If only John was willing to tell it. “Sebastian bedded me on and off for months, he made promises to me, kept me coming back, kept me wanting him.” John took a shuddering breath. “Seven months in and I was hoping to be collared, to spend the rest of my life with him.”

John knew he was shaking and he closed his eyes. He could still feel the torment of emotional instability, the trust that had been ripped away and stolen like the innocence he’d thought he’d still possessed. “I came one night to his apartment and he-”

The world spun. John kneeled on reflex, trying to calm himself down. There was movement, and then Sherlock was lifting his face, eyes tracing him. “You saw something he didn’t want you to know of,”  he said softly.

“Sebastian was a hitman, an assassin like the Golem,” John confessed. “I didn’t know, I never suspected,” his voice broke off and he cleared his throat. “His victims were tied up, burned and bleeding on the floor and he was fucking another.”

“Another victim?” Sherlock’s fingers tightened.

“No,” John swallowed back the bile in his throat. “A sub. They were laughing, both of them, moaning over the terror in the faces of-”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked as soon as John cut himself off.

“I left, I ran,” John bowed his head, dislodging Sherlock’s fingers, and then stood. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Don’t leave, John,” Sherlock said. “I would never-”

“I trusted him, I loved him,” John said, his back to his Dom. “I thought I’d learned better than to fall for a man with lesser morals.”

“John!” Sherlock called. It was a beg, he knew, and John couldn’t leave his Dom like this.

But he couldn’t stay.

“I’m going to Harry’s. I’ll be back in the morning,” John promised. “I’m sorry.”

~.~.~.~

The taxi would have been the best choice, but John needed the walk to clear his head. His breath was coming out visible in the coolness of the air, but he ignored the goosebumps on his skin and walked faster.

He didn’t know what to do, what to think. Sherlock was his world. He loved him, a deeper love, he thought, than the one he’d had for Sebastian. He thought he’d known him, never thought he would liken the two Doms, even in his mind.

He remembered the smell of blood in the air, and of burned flesh. The tear tracks that were cut out of the skin on the young woman’s face. Sebastian hadn’t seen him, too caught in his slapping of skin against his smaller companion. It had been dark, he hadn’t been able to catch a good look at either of them, but then again that had been his advantage as he’d escaped.

He’d never gone to the police. He wondered why.

He wondered if he would go to the police if he caught Sherlock in the act.

No, John thought fiercely. Sherlock is different. Sherlock is not Sebastian.

Was this why Mycroft had sought fit to warn him, John asked himself. Did he somehow know?

John didn’t think anyone knew except Sebastian, himself, and whomever the other sub had been.

Who had been the other? That was nagging at John, he thought he recognized the dark hair and pale skin that moved against Sebastian’s tanned legs. He’d spoken, John thought. The voice… something about that voice.

“I remember you now,” the voice said. “You were Seby’s old fucktoy.”

John spun, reaching for his gun but of course he’d left it back at the flat. Jim from IT stood there, his eyes dark, dressed in a three-piece suit and a nasty smile.

“You,” John gasped. “You were the other one.”

“Good job, Johnny-boy,” Jim clapped his hands. “Yes, Sebastian was always there when I needed to scratch an itch,” his smile darkened. “Ah, but you still don’t get it, do you?”

“Get it?” John frowned. “Sherlock said you were a sub…”

“Ah, Sherlock,” Jim sighed dramatically. “Perceptive, blind Sherlock.”

Blind? John took an instinctive step back. “Blind?”

“He never called me,” Jim murmured, staring off to the side. “He should have called me. Now I have to do this the hard way.”

John felt the presence at his back seconds before a hand came over his mouth. He struggled, automatically not breathing as he felt the cloth on his lips. His attacker was steady, but he hadn’t expected John to resist. John stepped back, slamming his heel into the other’s shin. The man let him go with a curse and John broke free.

“Not so fast,” Jim warned. In his hands, a gun pointed steady at John’s chest.

John froze. “Who?”

Jim narrowed his eyes. “Come now,” he tutted. “Sherlock wouldn’t keep someone so _bor_ ing.”

John’s gasped in a breath. “Moriarty,” he murmured.

The blunt force on the back of his head barely registered, but he distinctly remembered Jim Moriarty’s nasty laugh as he fell down. “Very good, Johnny-boy. Oh, you’re going to be loads of fun.”

Then the world went dark around him and John heard no more.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly caution you on this chapter if you have any triggers with rape or torture. If you need to, you can skip down three sections to where the pools scene starts.

_Drip. Drip._

_Drip._

John came aware slowly, the steady sound of dripping water like a soft alarm to wake him from his dark slumber. He searched through his muddled thoughts, wondering briefly about the sound. Was Sherlock getting out of the shower?

“Oh, you’re awake, Johnny?”

John jerked up, biting back a curse as he met the amused eyes of Moriarty. The events of his argument with his Dom and then subsequent kidnapping came back in a rush. He tried to stand, to meet his captor on level ground, only to feel constriction in his neck.

Taking a deep breath, John brought his hand up to feel his collar. It was thick, cold, and not the one his Dom had put on his neck. “Where…”

“Are you looking for this?” Moriarty took his hand out from behind his back, John’s collar dangling from one finger, the lock broken in two but otherwise in perfect condition. “Hmph, I think he could have done better, don’t you?”

“You bastard,” John growled, reaching out to grab at the man, only for him to be just out of range. “Bloody fucking-”

“Now, now, none of that,” Moriarty clucked with his tongue. “I think the one you’re wearing is much better suited, don’t you?” He laughed. “Oh, silly me, you can’t see it can you. Here you go, Johnny.”

Moriarty drew out a small mirror from his vest pocket and held it up at the perfect angel for John to see himself. John glared hard at the man, and then almost without control looked at his own reflection.

His hair was in disarray, matted with blood and sweat. The back of his head throbbed with the reminder that he’d been hit, but John’s gaze was moving down, grazing over the dark bags under his eyes and towards his neck. The collar around it was thick metal, no padding between it and John’s skin, with a large keyhole like that of a prisoner’s chains. Connected to it was indeed a chain that ran on a short leash to the wall.

He was trapped barely a foot above the ground, unable to either stand nor lie down, forced to sit or kneel in this barren warehouse of a cell. Trapped with a metal death trap on his neck and the collar of his Dom in the hands of the mass murderer who’d captured him.

“What do you want?” John asked, moving his eyes away from the mirror.

Moriarty tucked the reflective glass away, smiling wide. “Want? I want a lot of things, John Watson. I’m afraid I was a spoiled child.”

His manner of speaking reminded John vaguely of the Joker, but that would make him the kidnapped love interest and Sherlock the bat-obsessed masked vigilante to come rescue him and obviously he’d lost quite a bit of blood.

John wondered when Sherlock would realize he was gone. Would he call Harry? Would he wait until the next morning? Or worse, would he assume John had left him and not search at all?

John met the eyes of Moriarty and tried not to let his suspicions show on his face. Moriarty’s dark gaze narrowed on him, calculating, insanely intelligent behind dark lashes and a nasty smirk. His Dom’s greatest enemy stood before him and for just a brief moment, John felt real fear.

“Too easy,” Moriarty said. “You’re thinking of Sherry, aren’t you? Your precious Dom, love of you life and all that rot,” he snickered. “You think he even cares that your gone? He’ll move on, you know he will, don’t you? He’ll find another experiment and forget all about you.”

“You’re wrong,” John protested immediately, because he had to say something, anything.

“You might be right,” Moriarty frowned, an exaggerated movement as he brought a finger to his chin, collar still dangling off it. “He’ll probably remember you. A mystery he failed to solve, something to ponder on when he’d bored. But no more, right? Nothing more, not for someone so boring.”

Silence stretched, interrupted only by the dripping that echoed off the dark walls. There was only a single light that shone on both of them, drowning out the surroundings. John had no idea where he was, it could be any warehouse in London. Any warehouse in the world.

“I wonder if I could interest him,” Moriarty mused, to himself almost. He was staring now at John’s collar, tracing the  _Sherlock_  with a thumb. “I could make myself his greatest mystery yet, to dig deeper and deeper.” He hummed. “Could Sherlock find my center?”

John felt rage boil in him. How dare this sub, this monster speak of his Dom in such a manner, so callous in his planning. _But of course_ , John reminded himself, _he’s trying to get under your skin. Don’t let him_.

“Well, he’d have to call me,” Moriarty sighed and pocketed the collar. His gaze swerved suddenly back to John, a hawk to its prey. “I like your new collar, Johnny, you know why?”

John didn’t answer.

Moriarty continued as if he didn’t ask a question in the first place. “Because it has so many uses!” He reached around and came back with a small device in his hand. “Oh dear,” he frowned down into it. “They didn’t label them. Do you want to choose?”

He flipped the device around for John to see. There were four large buttons, one white, one red, one green, and one black. A set of arrows lined the bottom  “No?” Moriarty shrugged. “Okay, let’s try this one.” He pushed one of the arrows.

The noise came first, a mechanical sound before suddenly the collar was choking John backwards. He went with it, lying himself flat against the wall, but the chain was still pulling, coming closer. It would break his neck, John thought as his cheek began to rub against the harsh concrete, or perhaps first he would run out of air.

“Huh,” Moriarty’s voice sounded distant. “Well that’s no good, now I can’t see those gorgeous eyes of yours.” He make a click with his mouth and then the chain was coming back out, loosening to its original position.

John took a deep, shaking breath. He shivered suddenly, fingers reaching to the collar. “None of that,” Moriarty reprimanded. “We have more tests to try. How about this one?”

Moriarty’s finger came up and pressed down hard on the red button. Nothing happened and John blinked.

And then he felt it, the heat against his skin. John gasped, hand coming to pull the collar away from the front of his neck, only to have it press harder on the back. His fingers began to burn and the heat intensified, blistering them suddenly and harshly.

It was like nothing he’d ever felt, John thought. _Stop, please_. He didn’t know if it would kill him, but it would mar his skin, burn away until it got to his windpipe, maybe. He closed his eyes, tears coming to the corners of his eyelids of their own accord in response to the searing on his fingers. John thought to switch hands, but then his left would be as useless as his right was slowly becoming.

The heat faded slowly, blinding and then cooling down. John didn’t let go until he felt the liquid morphing of his skin begin to harden and he dropped his hand, watching it shake uncontrollably at his side.

“I’ve always like the cold better myself,” Moriarty said conversationally. “I wonder if that’s what this one is?”

 _What does he get out of playing stupid?_ John asked himself as Moriarty pressed the white button. A light spark zapped through him. John’s eyes widened as he felt it go almost up his spine. “No,” he said aloud. That would kill him, from the back of his neck and up to fry his brain or paralyze his spinal cord.

Moriarty wasn’t paying any attention to him, humming over the remote. John turned to look at the chain and used the sleeve of his shirt to press it back against the wall, hoping some of the electricity would sink to the wall.

It helped, but only slightly. Zaps came in short bursts. John tried to keep count, but soon he lost the ability to as each shock jerked his whole body.

His vision darkened, spotted. In those black and white circles, he saw his parents, Harry, Clara. He saw Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Dimmock and Soo Lin. He heard a gun shot with each charge of electricity and for just a flash he saw Sherlock, mouthing something.

“Boring,” Moriarty sighed. The zaps cut off in a stark relief of silence and John closed his eyes.

~.~.~.~

There wasn’t much to look at. No natural light came through beyond the darkness that spread in a circle from the single light bulb. John felt thirst deep in his throat and he tried to ignore it just as he ignored the burns on his hands and arms, the tremors that went through his body even now. The collar on his neck felt heavy.

_Drip._

Thirsty, he thought. So thirsty. Something to ease the burn of his throat, just a little taste of that dripping water. Couldn’t he have that?

He knew better than to ask. He wondered where Moriarty was as he sat there against the wall, alone except the silence and the darkness and the echoes of zapping in his ear.

The echoes morphed into the sound of footsteps on the ground. John didn’t strain his eyes to see who was coming, he knew.

“Oh, goodie you’re still here Johnny!” Moriarty said, as if he was honestly surprised. “I was just eating some lunch and look who I ran into.”

From the darkness another figure stepped forward. Sebastian Moran stood there, looking no different than the last time John had seen him. He blinked and the vision changed as he saw now the peppered grey hairs on the Dom’s temples and the coolness in his brown eyes.

John looked away from both of them. He would not react, no matter what surprise Moriarty brought, no matter how many buttons he pressed.

“He barely looks hurt,” Sebastian drawled. “You promised me a mess, Jim.”

“You’re not looking close enough,” Moriarty whined. “It’s the collar, see.”

There was a rustle, John saw Moriarty hand the remote over to his ex-Dom. Sebastian, Sebastian.

He thought he’d loved Sebastian. The man was strong, confident, hands brushing over John as if he were a possession.

Sherlock touched John as if he was a precious toy, a thing to maintain well so it could be played with again.

The collar began to vibrate hard, moving John’s head with it. John gritted his teeth and endured. Sebastian, Moran, Moran. Had he ever truly been Sebastian?

Moran huffed. “Interesting, but I prefer to do things a bit more,” he paused, “hands on.”

“By all means,” Moriarty said and there was a bit of excitement in his voice. “You know how much I appreciate your  _work_.”

Footsteps neared and then John’s head was being wrenched up to meet Moran’s sharp gaze. He kept his mouth closed and his eyes defiant; a vague memory of those rough fingers drawing him in.

But that was another time, another place. That was a different John Watson, one who’d never been a POW in Afghanistan and had never met Sherlock Holmes.

Sebastian scowled and in a quick move backhanded John across the right cheek. It was a love tap compared to all that John had already been through, not breaking skin and barely even bruising. But it did it’s purpose, focusing John so suddenly that he realized the haze that had been over his thoughts.

“Good, you’re with us,” Moran sneered. “I want you to feel all of this, John. Do you remember this? Remember me?”

John swallowed dryly as Moran’s large hands roughly turned him around. His hands came to catch himself on the floor and he hissed as the burns met with the ground. There was a lurch and his pants were being pulled from behind, displaying his ass to the cool and dirty air.

“Just like I remember it,” Moran said.

John caught the sound of a zipper being pulled down. More footsteps. “Ooh, I like the way you think!” Moriarty’s voice called out.

He was on display for both of them, John thought. His trainer flashed in his mind, and then flew away like dust as cold air hit his hole. Moriarty was talking still, Moran laughing over him.

“Sometimes it’s the timeless traditions,” Moran was saying.

Had he ever truly loved Sebastian Moran? Or had he been in love with the idea of him, the thought of a strong and confident Dom pushing in and claiming him.

He remembered the first time he’d seen the man, they’d literally bumped into each other at the mart. John had apologized, young, still in med school. Sebastian had taken one look at him and told him that there was an easy way to make it up to him.

John had shivered his way through the night, crying out as Sebastian built the pain up and up until it was blinding pleasure.

John felt stretched full now, body accepting the invasion even as his mind shied away from it.

Sebastian never held John after it was all said in done. Sure, they’d slept in the same bed, but there was no more warmth as John woke up in the morning again and again with no body by his side.

More often than not, he would wake up to Sherlock watching him, fingers brushing over his skin as light as a feather and a strange look in his eyes as if there was a mystery on the horizon.

John coughed, head banging against the wall as his body was rocked forward.

Even if he was just an experiment to Sherlock, the love he felt for him was real and it wasn’t going away, in fact, in the face of Moriarty, in the face of Sebastian, it was instead growing stronger.

There was liquid trickling down his buttcrack. John couldn’t be sure if it was cum or blood, he was sure to be torn, but he was numb to any pain.

The world wavered again.

 _I’m sorry, sir, Sherlock_ , John thought vaguely.  _I promised to be faithful._

There was a slap on his ass. John took in a shuddering breath and let himself sink down, imagining it was his Dom taking him with rough thrusts.

Imagined it was Sherlock wiping away his pain and giving him this pleasure.

~.~.~.~

Moriarty sighed. John winced and then steadied himself.

“You really are no fun, are you? Pity. I don’t like being wrong,” Moriarty sighed again.

How long had it been, John wondered briefly. The ache in his throat was a passing reminder of the human need for water, but by now it was drowned out by the sensations of his fingers and neck and newly his ass.

Numbness and pain drifted together like an intricate dance, one coming on as the other faded, only to come back in a rush of movement.

Hours, he thought. Days? A week, a month, a year. John felt as if time had slipped away from him, abandoned him in this dark room to the weight of this heavy chain.

Sherlock came to him in ghostly whispers and touches, keeping him awake, alert. Alive.

The memory of his Dom was there every time he closed his eyes, through countless thrusts and burns and shocks. Sherlock steadied him, reminded him of the good times and the bad. Even the worst of Sherlock was like a breath of fresh air, a tear to drip down his cheek and leave a salty track.

How he wished to be with Sherlock again, laughing together on the eve of a crime scene. He could just feel the warmth of his Dom’s arms around him, sitting in front of the fire on a cold night with tea chilling on the table in front of them. He could taste even the tangy semen on his lips, his jaw aching because of his choice and not the whim of a sick man.

No matter what they did to him, John thought, Sherlock would remain still in his memories and there he was perfect.

Moriarty sighed long. “You’re thinking of Sherry aren’t you?” He snorted. “Don’t worry, Johnny-boy, you’ll see him real soon. And then you’ll see, you’ll see.”

John looked up to meet those crazy eyes. “No, you’ll see,” he said with a voice so dry as to be barely distinguishable.

The scowl on Moriarty’s face was worth even another press of the red button and more agonizing seconds of darkness.

~.~.~.~

John knelt against the cool tile of the pool side. His body shuddered, protesting, but he was beyond caring. On his chest was a bomb, beeping softly in his ear. The tantalizing escape of the water drifted at the edge of his vision.

He stared straight ahead.

The pool door opened. John wavered for a moment, and then gave into temptation, his eyes going left and meet those of the one who’d come to rescue him.

Sherlock’s hazel eyes were dark with emotion, stark horror on his face and anger deeply burning.

John flinched.

“John,” Sherlock said. “Who?”

“Unuh,” Moriarty came out from behind the column, stepping just behind John’s position. “Don’t come any closer, okay Sher _lock_.”

John looked down briefly to see the laser pointed at his chest. He wondered if Moran was behind the sniper that put it there.

“You,” Sherlock took in an audible breath.

“Jim Moriarty,” the man’s smile was clear even in his voice. “Hi.”

Sherlock stood still, coiled. It did something John, something inside him.

 _At least_ , he thought, _I get to see my Dom again before I die_.

“Jim?” Moriarty was saying. “Jim from the hospital. Huh, did I really leave such a fleeting impression,” he shook his head. “You should have called.”

“Should I have?” Sherlock murmured.

“Nice touch, with the pool,” Moriarty said. “Carl Powers. I ended him, you know that though. Ended his teasing. Just like I’ll end you.”

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s and then traced down to the laser pointer.

Moriarty sighed. John stiffened, associating the sound with boredom. Moriarty’s boredom always facilitated another button press. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “Someone else is holding the rifle. I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

“No?” Sherlock growled low. “What did you do to my sub,  _Moriarty_.” He pulled from his pocket a gun and pointed it steadily at the criminal.

“Well,” there was a chuckle. “Perhaps, a little dirty. Oh, make no mistake, I didn’t touch him. Not me, no, I just,” a hand came down on John’s shoulder, fingers brushing at the burns on his neck where the metal collar had been, “pressed a few buttons.”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock,” Moriarty said. “Just a teensy glimpse of what I have going on out there. I’m a specialist you see,” he paused, “just like you.”

“Dear Jim,” Sherlock intoned. “Please will you get rid of my lover’s nasty sister for me. Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America.”

John closed his eyes, his breath coming short.

“Just so,” Moriarty chuckled.

“Consulting criminal,” Sherlock said. “Amazing.”

John’s body began to convulse slightly.

“Isn’t it,” Moriarty’s voice held some glee. His fingers retreated and he stepped away from John slightly. “No one ever gets to me.” His voice deepened. “And no one ever will.”

Sherlock unlocked the gun’s safety. “I did.”

“You’ve come the closest,” Moriarty admitted. “And now your in my way.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“Didn’t mean it as a compliment,” Moriarty replied quickly.

“Yes you did,” Sherlock hissed. “Or else you would have never gone to the lengths you have.”

“Ah, your little sub?” Moriarty hummed. “Come now, Sherlock, you don’t really care about this broken toy, do you?”

Sherlock’s grip on the gun tightened. “If you believed that-”

“I’ve cut loose all those people, all those little problems. Even threw away thirty million quid just for you. So take this as a friendly warning,  _my dear_ ,” Moriarty exhaled. “Back off.”

John’s chest heaved.

“Although,” Moriarty continued. “I have loved this. This little game of ours.”

“People have died,” Sherlock said softly.

“That’s what people DO!” Moriarty shouted. John jerked, the bomb beeping a warning.

“I will stop you,” Sherlock promised. “You will pay.”

“No you won’t,” Moriarty sighed. “You’re too weak, you know.”

John gasped, his head aching. Sherlock looked at him. “John, are you alright?”

“You can talk Johnny-boy,” Moriarty said, he raised a hand. “Perhaps you should, you might not be able to anymore.”

John met his Dom’s eyes. The edge of his sight was black and gray, but he could clearly see those hazel depths bearing into him. _I’m sorry,_ he thought.

_I love you._

Sherlock’s mouth opened.

John tried to smile, tried to convey his words, but his lungs were collapsing in his chest, his body throbbing like the open wound it was.

“No?” Moriarty laughed. “Stop pointing that gun at me Sherlock, I might do something drastic.”

 _Don’t!_ John tried to yell, but nothing came out. Sherlock dropped his hand, and then the gun fell to the ground.  _Sherlock._

The laser pointer on his chest moved away from the bomb and towards his shoulder. John watched it and thought of Afghanistan. There, the sound of the gun shot had invigorated him.

Here, it was the quiet whisper of defeat.

“Sherlock,” he whispered faintly as the bullet pierced him.

The world blinked out like a candle snuffed without a second thought.

~.~.~.~

It was bright behind his eyelids. John groaned, because perhaps he thought he should. Except suddenly he realized he was in no pain at all.

“What?” John whispered, blinking his eyes open. He was on the ground, a bright white floor that seemed to go on endlessly into the horizon. He looked up, or tried to, but found it too bright to bring his vision and so looked down again.

He was wearing nothing, John realized. No clothes, no wounds, and no scars. As smooth and pale as the day he was born, he thought almost blindly.

Was he dead? John reached towards his shoulder. It hadn’t even been a killing shot, he thought, but he had been weak, he’d been dying anyways.

Perhaps Moriarty had underestimated his strength. Maybe he’d underestimated his own. John shivered wildly, his body shocked.

A warm brush of air flew over him and John’s head once again cleared.

“John,” a deep, loud voice said from somewhere in front of him.

John startled and stood to face whomever was here with him. At first he saw nothing, and then the brightness seemed to concentrate in one spot and there before him was an old man, eyes so blue they were practically glowing and hair and beard as white as clouds.

“Who are you?” John asked. “Where am I? How do you know my name?”

“I know you name, because I saw when it was given to you,” the old man said. “A darling babe you were, the perfect match for one darker than you.”

John frowned. “I’m sorry?”

The old man nodded as if to himself. “I have been keeping an eye on you, John. To see if you would truly grow into the man I had hoped you would become. My hope was not misguided.”

“Who are you?” John asked again.

The old man laughed and the sound rang through the empty space. “To you, John, I am God.”

“I’ve gone bonkers,” John gaped. “Truly mad.” He wondered if he’d imagined the pool, if he perhaps was still in that warehouse at the hands of Moriarty.

“You know you have not, John,” God, God?, said. “You can feel so inside of you. You know the truth.”

“You actually exist,” John shook his head. “I mean, truly? White beard and everything?”

It was nearly too much, a reminder of Afghanistan in the face of it all. He wished he could be back there in the desert. He’d known his enemy then, had faith in his strength against basic sadism.

He had no defense against insanity.

God smile benevolently. “I exist as your perception of me, John.”

John frowned. “So, this is all in my head?”

“Isn’t everything?” God asked gently.

John sat down hard, realizing only after that there was a chair under him. He looked at it, then back up at God. There was silence hanging in the air.

John closed his eyes, opening them again only after he’d collected his thoughts. “Well, I suppose I should say thanks. You know, for letting me live earlier. When,” he took a shaking breath, “when I asked.”

God blinked once at him. “Even though you are dead now?”

John hung his head, fingering the emptiness of his neck. “I mean, I would have liked to live longer.” John refused to acknowledge the reason for the croak in his voice. “But then, I wouldn’t have-”

“You wouldn’t have fallen in love,” God said wisely.

John nodded. It was true. He was in love with Sherlock. Had been in love with him practically since day one. Since  _The Study in Pink_ , as he had called it.

Sherlock, how was he now? Would he take time to mourn? John wondered. Or would he die facing the criminal mastermind at the pool with John’s cooling body resting in the ground beneath them.

“I never told him,” John looked up, startled. “I never told him. I’m dead and he doesn’t know!”

God looked at him sadly. “Such is the way of life and death, John Watson.”

John sat there, hands shaking, chest welling with anger and resentment and pure anguish. And then he deflated. There wasn’t much he could do about it now, could he? He could only hope that Sherlock was okay, that he’d escaped form the clutches of the mad man who’d reduced John to this state.

God watched him. “Do you still thank me for your belated death?”

John breathed in deeply and nodded. “I wouldn’t trade my time with Sherlock for anything,” he said with complete honesty.

That was what had been his saving grace, after all. The one thing he could hold onto.

“Well, John,” God shook his head. “You were wrong.”

“What?” John leaned back in his chair. “I was wrong?” Wrong about what? He’d been wrong about many things in his life, but he knew his love of Sherlock was real and he knew that even given the chance he would not change that.

“Yes John,” God smiled.

Before them stretched suddenly sandy plains and then a dark building, an underground cavern of caves. John saw himself as he must have been then, an intensity in his eyes as he stared at the bloody mess of bodies he’d left behind. A gun was pointed at him and his own thoughts drifted in the air.

_“Please God, let me live.”_

“I let you survive then,” God explained as the scene was overrun by the British army, the man pointing a gun at John frozen for the just quick second it took to be tackled from behind.

And then the vision swirled and John saw himself at the restaurant, a familiar riding crop in his hand. He saw himself waver, the decision warring within him clear on his own face.

“But living, that was your choice,” God said.

John kneeled before Sherlock, holding out the riding crop like an offering. The vision flickered and then flashes came, flashes of their cases, or their sorrows and joy.

With a soft sound, it faded out until John was staring at white space once more.

John bit his lip, but before he could say anything, God was continuing.

“So, John Watson,” God met John’s gaze and trapped him there. “What do you choose?”

Choose? John stared at the suddenly bright and empty space in front of him. The light was swirling, gathering around him in a vortex. He took in a deep breath, gasping as air hit his lungs.

_“JOHN!”_

John blinked and the world went white.


	10. Chapter 10

_“JOHN!”_

The hands that pulled at him were at once familiar and frightening. John gasped, struggling against them as his vision flickered.

“John,” that voice said again.

“Sherlock,” John croaked. He blinked and suddenly everything focused. His Dom’s face hovered over his, hazel eyes wide with both relief and distress.

“Well, isn’t this s-” Moriarty hissed, “-sickening.”

Sherlock growled low, reaching for his fallen gun. Moriarty sighed and put a foot on it, shaking his head. “Come now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he began to take the bomb off John. John sat up slowly, wincing as the straps moved over his bleeding shoulder. He thought that perhaps the bullet had impacted in his bone, mirroring what had happened in Afghanistan.

But then again, that might just be speculation. He was hardly at the mental capabilities to make those sorts of deductions at the moment.

Moriarty scowled as he watched the bomb being thrown away, but didn’t try to stop them. The back part of John’s brain wondered why.

“He is sweet, you know,” Moriarty said, addressing Sherlock. “Screams so prettily. I can see why you like him.” He shrugged. “But then again, people do get so attached to their pets.”

Sherlock made as if to lunge. Moriarty laughed coldly, stopping him in his tracks. “None of that, dear. Wouldn’t want to waste another bullet.”

His Dom’s eyes flickered to John. He wondered if he had a laser pointed on his forehead now. John struggled to come back to himself, to help his Dom in this fight. Whatever had just happened, and that was something he would think about  _later_ , he felt slightly more invigorated, if not in real working condition.

Then again, the endorphins were beginning to flood his system now. The bomb was off, he could move easier, and his Dom was here.

Sherlock was here. He wasn’t a hallucination in Moriarty’s cell. He was here.

“So strong, I had thought,” Moriarty scowled and muttered under his breath. “A worthy opponent, a bit of fun to be had,” he scoffed as he glanced at John. He exhaled and raised his voice. “Do you know what I’m going to do if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?”

“Let me guess, kill me?” Sherlock said in a low voice.

“Kill you? No, don’t be obvious,” Moriarty rolled his eyes. “I mean, I’m going to kill you anyways, someday. I don’t want to rush it.”

He shook his head and the silence stretched for a second. “If you don’t stop prying,” Moriarty continued. “I will burn you. I will burn the  _heart_  out of you.”

Sherlock stilled as Moriarty reached in his pocket. “But look.”

John took in a quick breath as his collar, the collar his Dom had given him, became visible. He shook suddenly and tried to stand.

Moriarty laughed. “You see, Sherlock,” he said, “I’ve already started.”

And with a toss of his wrist, the collar went flying, landing in the pool with a soft plop. Sherlock’s head followed it, and then his eyes came to rest on John. They were assessing him, moving over his collarless neck.

John stepped forward, if only to stop himself from diving into the pool. He knew, oh how he knew that if Sherlock had not looked at him then that he would. It was the siren’s call of the water, the memory of the collar that had been taken from him.

“Sir,” John said, a hand loosely gripping his Dom’s sleeve.

Sherlock’s fingers came to brush over John’s neck and John shivered against him, not caring that it hurt, that his blistered skin was raw still against the cool air, because this was grounding and it focused him like nothing else could.

Head cleared, John looked at Moriarty, and then behind him slightly. The hallway was right there, he thought. If they could just get into that hallway, then the laser that was still pointing at John wouldn’t be able to hit him. Not immediately, anyways.

Moriarty was still talking, disgust on his face wavering in and out. However long John had spent in the monster’s company, he’d learned at least one thing. Moriarty was, if not completely insane, at least bi-polar in both feelings and actions.

“-weak,” Moriarty scowled. “Dependent, how can you call yourself a genius of deduction, Sherlock? Can you not see what you have brought upon yourself.  _He_  is pulling you down.”

Sherlock fingers tightened momentarily on John’s neck. “John is neither a weakness nor a burden to me.”

“No?” Moriarty laughed. “Ah, but Sherlock, dear, he’s just human. And humans are _so_ fragile.”

John felt at the wound on his shoulder almost unconsciously. His entire left arm was slowly loosing feeling, but at the moment that was his advantage.

He refused to contemplate what that meant for the future.

“John,” Moriarty said. John’s head snapped up and Sherlock hissed. “Come here.”

John blinked, wondering where Moriarty’s mind was that he actually thought-

The laser shifted, hovering on Sherlock’s head. John closed his eyes momentarily and when he opened them again he was already moving.

“John,” Sherlock commanded softly. John looked back and met his Dom’s eyes. His fingers twitched slightly. Sherlock’s mouth tightened.

“Good boy,” Moriarty chuckled. “Why don’t you kneel here, can you do that for me, pet?”

John dropped his eyes and nodded. _Anything to save Sherlock_ , he thought and then tried to convey as he slowly began to go down on his knees.

“You see,” Moriarty began. “Humans are just so-”

In a flash, John rammed his shoulders forward, taking Moriarty down to the ground. Behind him he heard as Sherlock roll behind the pillar and a gunshot going off, but he couldn’t stop to check as he pushed the door open and flew through, Moriarty’s body struggling against him.

The door closed again with a bang. Moriarty still struggled against him, pushing hard against John’s wounds, and then John was being pushed backwards, head banging hard against the narrow hallway’s wall.

There was the faint sound of the door again; John’s vision blurred as his head ached.

Footsteps clicked and John watched his Dom’s legs move across his line of vision. He raised his gaze and saw as Sherlock cocked the gun he must have grabbed in the process of escaping to the hallway.

Moriarty stood and brushed off his suit. “Westwood,” he said, giving Sherlock a significant look.

John frankly couldn’t care what brand of jacket the man was wearing. He struggled to push back the pain, let those endorphins take his body and give him strength enough for this fight.

“Will you shoot me, Sherlock?” Moriarty asked suddenly. “I don’t think you will.”

“I should,” Sherlock said. “But death is too quick for you.”

“Ooh, scary,” Moriarty actually giggled. “You can do nothing to me.”

“And why not?” Sherlock asked. He took one hand off the gun, the other still pointing it steadily, and held a hand out in John’s direction.

John let his fingers slip in his Dom’s and he pulled himself up, standing shakily. Sherlock didn’t let him go, a thumb rubbing the back of his hand almost as a reassurance. For himself or for John, the Sub didn’t know.

“Why not?” Moriarty scoffed. “I’m a  _mystery_  to you. You don’t know me, you haven’t figured me out.” He gave another giggle. “You can’t kill me.”

John stiffened, the reaction making him flash back to that makeshift cell and this monster’s callous words. The worst, the absolute worst thing about it was that he couldn’t say for sure that he’d be surprised if his Dom agreed with this man.

“It wasn’t just pretend, was it?” Sherlock murmured and his fingers on John’s loosened.

Moriarty’s eyes darkened, his smile widening. John breathed in slowly and drew his hand back from Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s eyes flickered towards him, but they were unreadable.

For the first time in quite a while, too long, John honestly had no idea what his Dom was thinking.

“Too late now,” Moriarty laughed suddenly and then running footsteps were heard down the end of the hall.

John looked around, seeing if there was any cover that could be had, anything that could be used as a weapon. He was weak, would be useless in a real fist fight against Moriarty’s men. He had no defense against their guns.

Were he and his Dom to be shot down here?

The shadows stretched behind Moriarty. Sherlock brought his free hand back up to the gun, waiting in what seemed like patience.

There was a click and then Sebastian Moran stepped out of the shadows of the end of the hallway into the light. In his hands he held a small pistol pointed at Sherlock.

“You’re usel _ess_. Why didn’t you shoot them earlier?” Moriarty asked, whining. “And what took you so l _o_ ng?”

“Damn rifle jammed,” Moran scowled. “As to the second question, I‘m not even going to answer that one.”

Moriarty sighed dramatically. “You know I don’t like it when you’re late, Sebastian. They could have hurt me.”

Sherlock jerked, glancing at John briefly as he transferred his aim to the sniper. His Dom hadn’t known, John remembered suddenly, what Moran looked like.

Moran snorted. “Hurt you? Jim Moriarty? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“You’re right,” Moriarty smirked. “These two, they couldn’t hurt a fly, could they? Just standing there, Sherlock? Not going to shoot the one who  _raped_  your dear little pet, are you?”

“Rape is a harsh word,” Moran said even as Sherlock’s muscles tensed. “I was merely reacquainting myself with a past toy.”

“Broken toy,” Moriarty sighed.

Sherlock ducked down and rolled forward, the bullet from Moran’s shot ricocheting off the wall with a loud crack. “Watch it!” Moriarty called as he stepped back. “Boys!”

Moran wasn’t listening, John though faintly as he clutched his right thigh, feeling the small sting in it. He didn’t dare take his eyes away from this fight to check the damage, however, as Sherlock jumped on the sniper and sent them both crashing to the floor.

A gun went spinning away into the shadows, though John couldn’t see whose, and a grunt sounded. He stumbled to get closer, to help, except his leg gave out on him and he had to fall to a one-legged kneel on the floor.

Sherlock’s head pulled back, his curled hair flying. A rough hand, Moran’s, was on his chin and the Dom’s grappled for control. John closed his eyes, the sound of their punches a physical thing in the hallway as he crawled closer.

Moriarty wasn’t paying him any attention, focused as he was on the fight. John approached just as Moran flipped Sherlock, foot kicking at his Dom’s shin. Sherlock bit the hand that came to close and Moran let out a loud yell.

It was a dirty fight, John noted. He was close enough now to grab ahold of Moran’s kicking leg and cling. It was a distraction enough to turn the man, giving Sherlock time to flip the positions again.

John felt his world go upside down and he lost his grip, flying away and colliding with the wall. A body, he couldn’t even tell which, slammed over top him and then got back up, ramming forward.

Coughing weakly, John crawled backwards, a wounded crab as he struggled to read the situation. He couldn’t tell now who was winning, only that both Moran and Sherlock were hurt, fingers twisted and bruises covering dark eyes. There communication was in grunt and yells, their anger concentrated in their fists.

His fingers came in contact with something cool and John risked a quick look. He was in the shadows, he realized. He’d moved into the darkness.

The gun was at once comfortable and unfamiliar in his hands. John didn’t have time to wonder where the other one was as he unclicked the safety slowly, one eye checking to make sure Moriarty hadn’t moved.

The monster was still standing there, a smirk on his face as he watched the two Doms go at it. “This can’t last forever, boys,” he was saying to them. “The sooner you calm down, the sooner we can  _talk_  it out!”

Moriarty was insane, John decided with a shiver he couldn’t control as he used the wall to support himself and stood.

The Doms had separated, circling each other like angry animals, dogs put in the pits to slaughter each other for the amusement of the spectators.

A wave of nausea past over John and he pushed it down, one step at a time. Moran bellowed out a laugh, sneering as he stopped. “He was mine first, you know. I owned him, I taught him the pleasure of dick up his ass!”

“You never owned him,” Sherlock said. “And you never will.”

John raised his arm, trying to control the wild shaking as he took aim.

“Did he never tell you? How he begged for my cock, on his knees before me. He would have done anything for me, pathetic thing he was,” Moran’s laugh was a growl and John’s hand steadied. “You know that cry he makes as you beat him, that high-pitched noise, doesn’t that make you just shiver?”

“Be quiet,” Sherlock said in a deadly calm voice. “You do not deserve to speak of him, you have no right to talk about him in such a way. John is so far above you,  _Sebastian_.”

Sebastian’s face twisted, his eyes set on Sherlock. John aimed around his Dom’s shoulder and hoped the man would move. “That fucking whore is nothing b-”

The shot rang sharp, followed quickly by another. Moran went down in a guttural gasp, a hand coming to clasp his face even as the light in his eyes began to dim. John limped closer and shot again. The wound on the cheekbone was bleeding, another in his pelvis and another just slightly below that.

Moran’s eyes met his and John forced himself not to flinch against that look. Once, he’d thought he’d loved that man.

But he was past the time for talking, the time for those confessions now because it was his Dom, Sherlock would placed a hand on his shoulder as John fired off another shot at the side of Moran’s throat and together they watched him bleed out against the floor.

“You-” Moriarty looked shocked, perhaps even a bit horrified at the sight. His arms uncrossed and he took a step back. “You… you killed him.”

John turned his gun on the monster that had tortured him for the better part of twelve hours and cocked it slowly.

Moriarty must have seen something in his eyes because he was taking a step back, then another. His eyes turned beyond John to Sherlock and John’s fingers squeezed the trigger, but only a click was heard.

There was something like relief in Moriarty’s façade now. John threw the gun away and stalked forward because this man would not get away from him.

Moriarty pivoted on his heel. “I must be off, we’ll catch up later won’t we…” he was already making his way down the hallway.

“Stop!” Sherlock said in that dominant voice that had John freezing in his pursuit.

Moriarty paused for just a second, a brief second but it was enough to say everything.

Suddenly, shouts were heard down the end of the hall and he did stop trying to escape. Instead he turned back to John and Sherlock, his smirk back on. “It’s not over yet, Sherlock.”

And then men were upon them, pushing Moriarty against the wall roughly.

The tapping of an umbrella was like a welcome relief as Mycroft made himself visible behind the horde, his eyes dark and a frown prominent on his face as he surveyed his brother and his brother’s battered sub.

~.~.~.~

“You’re awake.”

John nodded, accepting the ice chip that was handed to him.

“You had us worried,” Lestrade sat on the chair next to his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Drugged,” John said honestly, his voice barely recognizable.

Lestrade winced and nodded. “I’ll go get Sherlock then, he’ll be glad to see you coherent.”

John frowned, his memories of the past day, week?, were hazy at best. He was bandaged nearly head to foot, likely had been operated on too judging by the IVs in his skin and the flood of morphine he felt running through his body.

 _Yeah, that was definitely the morphine speaking_ , he thought to himself.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice washed over him as John looked up.

His Dom strode over to his side, smiling down at him. “You’re here,” he said. “Tracking.”

“Yes, sir,” John said. He moaned low as Sherlock leaned down and took his lips in his own, claiming them in a rush.

They made out, slow and careful on John’s bed, reaffirming each other and themselves. John clung to his Dom as much as he could, not even noticing his bandages being pulled, his injuries getting pushed until Sherlock drew away and sat down in the chair.

“Sher-” John began.

“There is time for that later,” Sherlock promised. “You are safe, whole, and that’s what matters.”

“No whole,” John murmured.

“You are perfect,” Sherlock told him. “Whatever new scars you take with you are  _prizes_ , do you understand?”

“Yes,” John shivered. “Yes, sir.”

The air between them was electric, alive like the beating of John’s heart in his chest and neck and wrists. The sound was heavy, numbing.

“I-” John began,  _love you_. He closed his mouth, the sudden need for water so intense that he couldn’t even speak. He knew he had been dehydrated, but he couldn’t be any more. “How long?”

“You’ve been here ten days, in and out,” Sherlock said immediately. “They thought- I thought, but it doesn’t matter. You are safe.”

 _Safety_ , John contemplated that briefly.

Sherlock looked up to the doorway, scowling. “I need to go talk to my brother,” he said with a sigh. “Moriarty has been put in a maximum security cell, trial awaiting. We’re working out details. It’ll just be a moment, and then I’ll be back.”

“Sir,” John said, stopping his Dom in his tracks. He took in a deep breath, his guilt now that everything was over suddenly weighing heavily on his mind. “I need- I need to confess something.”

“John,” Sherlock turned back to him. “Whatever happened while,” he paused. “You need not explain anything to me. Not now. You’re here, safe, recovering and that is enough.”

“No, no it isn’t,” John argued. “I, Sebastian, Moran,” he closed his eyes.

Sherlock’s arms came carefully to wrap around him and John winced despite himself. His Dom backed off immediately. “He hurt you.”

“I didn’t even struggle,” John choked because that was the problem. “I’m sorry, I didn’t struggle. I, I imagined it was you, there. It was,” he felt something akin to a sob coming on and pushed it back down. “It was such a relief. To take pleasure from the pain, sir, Sherlock, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, John,” Sherlock lifted his face carefully. “I’m not angry with you. How could I be? You were so brave, so strong for surviving all that he did to you. If I could help you in any way… I am glad.”

“Glad?” John blinked slowly. “But, sir, I, he wasn’t you.”

“But I wasn’t there and you will  _never_  be put in a position where you have to pretend again. You are mine, John,” Sherlock kissed him lightly on the forehead and then again on the lips.

And he was too perfect, John though as Sherlock pulled back once more. Too perfect, John knew he would never recover from all that was Sherlock. That despite all of his Dom’s promises, when that day came that they were separated he would break. He would be torn apart and there was nothing he could do.

John hands shook and he clutched the blanket, the grafting on his hands stretching. “I’m just a mystery to you and maybe one day you’ll solve it and let me go, but I can’t let you go. I can’t- whatever time I have left with you I will take, sir, please.”

Sherlock turned back, seeming almost physically distressed under his mumbled words. “No, John, no you mustn’t think that I-”

“I love you,” John said and there, there he’d finally confessed that. No more secrets. “I am in love with you, all of you, so much that it hurts and I don’t know how it happened or when but I trust you with all that I am.”

Sherlock looked shaken when John met his eyes. “John-”

“Sir,” Anthea was at the door, her eyes on her blackberry. “He’s asking for you.”

“You should go,” John said before Sherlock could say anything. “Please, go.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, and then he nodded and followed after Anthea.

John leaned back against his pillows and stared up at the ceiling. He’d rarely been in hospitals where he wasn’t a working doctor and it was almost nostalgic in a way.

Closing his eyes, John thought about his conversation with God, the white expanse of space he’d been taken as he though he’d died. A pain-induced hallucination, he thought rationally.

All in his head.

John had never thought himself a very religious person, but he’d found God in Afghanistan when he’d begged for his life and that had never left him. He wondered if he should tell Sherlock. He knew he would not lie to his Dom if he asked, but…

It didn’t matter if it was real, John thought. It really didn’t. Because he’d survived Afghanistan and he’d survived Moriarty. In the end, hallucination, truth versus belief, this knowledge would sit within John’s heart and it would not leave him.

Smiling faintly, John’s head came up when the door opened. He didn’t think Sherlock would be back so soon, but perhaps it was Lestrade come to check on him again.

Sarah came in with a new bag of fluids. She stopped as she saw his eyes on her, possibly not expecting him to be awake.

“Sarah?” John croaked out.

“John,” Sarah said, and then she visibly straightened and assumed the professionalism of a doctor. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” John answered. He watched as she changed out his IV bag and adjusted the drop down slightly. “You don’t work here.”

“They needed some extra hands after the whole, well,” Sarah waved her fingers. “The city’s been weird and I figured I’d help out. My surgery’s on holiday.”

“Oh,” John said. His last argument with her seemed like a distant memory after all that had happened, but he was cautious now. The rules had changed, their interactions were almost new.

Sarah sighed and stepped back towards the door. “John,” she said. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” he asked, head spinning slightly.

Sarah smiled a small, bitter thing. “For what I said. I had no right.”

“You-” John closed his eyes. “You were trying to help a friend,” he said finally.

“No, I was jealous and irrational. I didn’t trust you or your word and I, well, I’ve seen too many subs injured from sadists to accept that you would truly enjoy it,” Sarah confessed.

John nodded. It was a problem, one he knew quite well. The train of thought that lead to skepticism among some about the true nature of sadism and masochism.

All John knew was that when Sherlock hurt him, he focused and flew at the same time and that was something he’d never been able to find with other forms of domination.

“He, Sherlock,” Sarah continued. “He barely ever left your side, you know. His own injuries... it took the other doctors days to get him to confess he had a broken rib, he was so focused on you.”

“I didn’t know,” John’s throat closed slightly.

“I figured,” Sarah ducked her head. “I’m taking the weekend off and then I’m heading back to my own work. If you,” she sighed, cutting herself off, “just, John, I’m happy for you. That you have him.”

“Thank you,” John murmured as she left.

And then he was alone with his thoughts.

~.~.~.~

John spent nearly two months at the hospital before they deemed him fit to go home. His neck was the most visibly scared, but he no longer felt any pain from it. Mrs. Hudson was in tears as Sherlock walked him through the door of 221b Baker Street and John hugged her tightly.

They ate a dinner together, all three of them, and then Sherlock told their landlady and friend good night.

“Can you kneel?” he asked as soon as they were alone.

John didn’t speak, instead he got out of the chair and sank to the floor, arms stretching behind his back. It was painful, briefly, but Sherlock’s eyes were approving. “Stay there,” he commanded softly and left to the other room.

John was shivering by the time he returned, but neither of them mentioned it. In Sherlock hands was something John though he’d never see again.

“My collar,” he breathed. “But-”

“Mycroft’s men drained the pool and retrieved it,” Sherlock said. “It’s been cleaned and repaired.” He showed it and John admired the shine of his Dom’s name. It looked as new as the day he’d first seen it and without thinking he dropped his head, offering his neck.

“Before I put this on you,” Sherlock said, making John lift his eyes once more. “There is something that I need to make clear.”

John’s throat dried and he nodded.

Sherlock stepped closer, a hand descending slowly to touch the side of John’s upraised face. “When I put this on you again, John, it will be permanent. I will not take it off, not for anyone, anything. No mystery is enough to pull me away from you. I am not the kindest, nor the most emotional of men, John, but I do feel for you, care for you more than I have ever cared for another person.”

“You don’t need to-” John began.

Sherlock smiled softly. “I am not well-versed in the concept of love, but if I were, if I could say for certain, then I would return the words you gave me. I cannot, because I do not know, but I can say this,” he inhaled deeply. “I would do anything for you, John Watson. I would kill for you, live for you, I would be bored for you any day because you are  _all_  I need.”

John thought that perhaps his eyes were watering, but he refused to think about it because if actual tears fall then he did not think he’d be able to stop them. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Will you be mine?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, sir, always,” John lowered his head again and something static shook his whole body as the collar clicked around his neck.

Then Sherlock was helping him stand, half-carrying him to their bed and placing him down upon it as if he was a fragile thing, something to be protected and cherished.

His Dom and lover went slowly over his body, carrying him to orgasm with gentle hands and words. The pain of his body felt as though he was walking on clouds and when Sherlock finally entered him, it erased any past memory.

And things weren’t perfect, because perfection was an impossibility in John’s eyes, but they were as close as he’d ever imagined for his life on his knees in front of the Afghani who’d tortured him.

He was living here, in this moment with Sherlock. The steady assurance of his Dom’s collar around his neck, his arms around his body, and the knowledge of his love around his heart.

John was living.


End file.
